


Five Times Jim & Oswald Cuddled Platonically, and One Time It Wasn't

by pamdizzle



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: 5+1, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cuddling & Snuggling, Depression, Eventual Romance, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Gotham (TV) Season/Series 04 Fix-it, Hurt Jim, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Jim, Platonic Cuddling, Post-Season/Series 04, Sort Of, Touch-Starved, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-07 18:29:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15913839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pamdizzle/pseuds/pamdizzle
Summary: Takes place after Season 4, wherein there are few comforts in a city left in ruin, but as Jim tries to aid in its rebuilding, he manages to find a few quiet moments of comfort here and there in an unexpected person.Join me as we visit some of fanfiction's oldest tropes such as "there was only one bed," "cuddle me, I've got a fever" and "please don't die, I think I love you" among others.(Side note: This is NOT part of my on-going series and is meant to be read as a stand-alone).





	1. Strange Bedfellows

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! I got bit by another plot bunny (an oh-so cuddly one) while I was working on my novel the other day, and it would not be ignored. This is not part of Dreams of Lace and Satin (I've got something outlined for the next installment though), but I hope you guys like it all the same!

It’s late, and the glaring fluorescent overhead light in the tiny bathroom burns Jim’s eyes as he tries to scrub the filth from his face. Barb and her gang of followers did not pull their punches, and Jim would have preferred to avoid her ‘territory’ altogether but needs must. The effort to rebuild the Kane Memorial Bridge, one of the larger reconstruction efforts aimed at reconnecting the city to the outside world, is being threatened by Riddler. A series of fatal ‘accidents’ have all but halted the progress Bruce and the rest of Gotham’s good-intentioned citizens—both inside and formerly evacuated—have worked so hard to initiate.

Jim needs a way to appeal to Ed and, unfortunately for Tabitha Galavan, that means he needs Penguin. Alive. Which is why Jim is currently laying low in the relative safety of an abandoned basement closet. At least, it feels like a closet. He thinks maybe it was the maintenance manager’s apartment for the building above them—a vacant complex on the lower East side. The bathroom has the bare necessities—toilet and sink, stained by hard water and god knows what else—both equally disgusting even before the evacuation, Jim is certain.

The air is rife with the scent of decay—mildew on the walls, mold near the ceiling. They’ll be lucky if they leave here without spores, but he’d rather roll in black mold than risk discovery by Barb’s foot soldiers. He just has to trust that Selena will make good on her word, that they’re safe until she can slip in and guide them stealthily out beneath their noses. Until then, stale air and cramped quarters it is. At least there’s running water and electricity—the first milestones of their reconstruction efforts realized.

Giving it up as a lost cause, he removes what is left of his over shirt and loops it into the rusty towel hook. It looks more like a wash rag than a shirt now anyway. He pushes away from the sink and carefully reenters the main room of the apartment. It isn’t much bigger than the bathroom, in all honesty. Just enough space for a twin bed pushed into the corner along one wall, and an empty tv stand along the other. Luckily, the door opens out, else the poor bastard that lived here before wouldn’t have had room for even that. Jim pushes the errant thought aside and focuses on the problem in front of him.

Oswald’s overcoat is spread over the bed, a barrier between his skin and whatever filth clings to the thin mattress. He’s laid out on his back, bad leg bent at the knee and dropped down toward the floor, arms folded up behind his head. From this short distance, he looks every inch the polished aristocrat he’s worked so hard to cultivate over the years Jim has known him. It’s rare anymore, getting a glimpse of that scared, uncertain man beneath the veneer. He graces Jim with a calculating glance when he begins to approach the bed.

Oswald sniffs, closes his eyes again. Haughtily, he says, “It’s a bit small for two grown men. Of course, I’d happily offer to share but I’m sure you’d much rather—”

Jim ignores him. He’s too tired to let Oswald bait him into an argument neither of them can win. They’re stuck here. They’re both tired, both got the shit kicked out of them, and neither of them are sleeping on the concrete. Oswald has a physical disability and he may be an asshole, but Jim isn’t going to make him sleep on the floor. Jim isn’t prepared to make anyone sleep on that floor, and so here they are. One layer of filth above another, and Oswald may not like it, but tough shit. Jim needs to lay the fuck down, right fucking now.

“What—” Oswald gasps as Jim crawls over him to get to the small open space near the wall. “Jim, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Shuddup and go to sleep,” Jim replies, surly.

He manages to maneuver himself with his back against the wall, though there isn’t enough space for them to share without physically touching. Jim’s too tired to care about personal space and propriety. He folds his right arm under his head, and throws the other over Oswald’s waist, letting his left leg bend slightly over the man’s thigh. He shuffles for a minute, letting his body fall into a natural adjustment before he finally sighs in relief.

Once he’s settled, body lax with the oncoming promise of sleep, it’s impossible not to notice how tense Oswald has become. He forces his eyes open, expecting to be met with irritation or some other Victorian outrage. Instead, Oswald’s eyes are pinched shut, jaw clenched so that his mouth is pressed into a thin frown. His hands are fisted, and he radiates a tension that goes beyond discomfort.

“Hey,” Jim says, waits for the man to open his eyes and meet his gaze. “Calm down, alright?”

“You’re too close,” Oswald replies through clenched teeth.

Jim furrows his brow, leans up on his elbow so he can get the full view of Oswald’s haunted expression. He’s averted his eyes, as if not looking at Jim will somehow deliver him from his presence. Jim sighs, hates that he feels even the smallest bit of guilt or sympathy where the Penguin is concerned. The man is a goddamned murderer, sees obstacles instead of people, as cut throat as they come.

And yet, right now in this moment, he’s just Oswald; a peculiar, unhappy man hardened by loss and betrayal. All he’s ever learned from letting others close is how easy it makes it for them to shove the blade in deep. It would be easy to ignore his discomfort if Jim could delude himself into believing the man was half as unfeeling as most people think. Thing is, Jim knows how deeply Oswald feels—the depths to which he’s cared for the few who’ve had the privilege.

_‘He killed my mother, Jim…it changes a person…’_

Jim knows. And he isn’t the only who’s been through hell today.

“If you…” Damn it. Harvey’s right: He’s a fuckin’ sucker. “If you want me to move, I will, okay?”

This gets Oswald’s attention, distraught blue eyes finally meeting his own.

Jim sighs. “I’m tired, alright?”

He’s so tired, body aching from exhaustion, that he’s damn close to tears with just the thought of giving up the tiny bit of comfort he’s managed to squeeze from this shitty situation. But he’ll do it. He’d rather sleep on the fucking floor and contract hepatitis than be that kind of bully.

“But…if sleeping next to me is so awful, then I’ll move, okay? But fuck—please, don’t make me move,” Jim pleads. And he might just be loopy, but Oswald’s stare actually softens as he continues, “I promise I won’t hurt you. I wouldn’t—I’d arrest you, okay? But I’m not gonna hurt you, not—not like that, alright?”

He can hear how dry Oswald’s throat is when he swallows, probably didn’t get much to eat or drink while he was being tortured by Tabitha. Not that it wasn’t his own actions that put him in her sights. Not that she didn’t stab his mother in the back.

Eye for an eye makes the whole world blind, he supposes.  

Oswald surprises him by slipping an arm into the small space between Jim’s side and the mattress, winding it behind his back and gently guiding him back down. His head ends up resting just inside Oswald’s shoulder, his arm sliding further around his waist as he settles against him even closer than he’d been before. Jim’s entire body slumps in relief, and it takes the last bit of his effort not to groan embarrassingly with the comfort the new position affords.

“Thank you,” Jim groggily manages instead, eyes falling shut.

There’s a soft sigh, a gentle huff of air that catches his bangs before a hand comes to rest on his forearm.

“Go to sleep, Jim.”

 


	2. Chicken Soup for the Bedraggled Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This week's trope? 
> 
> Jim is in the middle of unravelling a new threat to the city, but he's too sick to outrun his assailants when they catch on to his investigation. Kidnapped, Jim finds himself held in unexpected company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, just a quick note here. Jim is in a really bad emotional state here. Note the added tags for depression. He isn't suicidal but there's some subtext that indicates he's losing his will to live, bit by bit. Shit is rough in Gotham right now--I went full meltdown mode with this little 5+1--and so there's mention of that stuff in the background, and so I'm writing from the premise that Bruce, Jim and the other remaining good-intentioned people of Gotham are working toward and making strides in bringing the city up again but in the meantime, Jim is really feeling the awful. So, you know, just a heads up about that, because I don't know what sets folks off, but depression sucks and I don't want to push anyone's unhappy button. So, heed that angst tag, folks.

He’s going to have to stop—can’t outrun them on foot. Not like this; head swimming, vision blurring. Jim ducks behind a dumpster, pulls out his phone to tap out what he hopes is a coherent location and rough identity of his pursuers. He doesn’t know who they are, but Jim had gotten close to finding out—too close, it would seem. He can hear their feet slapping against the pavement. Or, maybe it’s just his head, his own heart pounding in his temples.

Jim manages to hit send, and that’s it. That’s all he’s got, though he knows he should try to get further. He means to get up, rally his weak limbs to carry him another couple blocks. His head thumps back against the dumpster instead, the smell assaulting his nostrils and then he’s really sick. He lurches to his side just in time to avoid messing his clothes, retches loudly onto the pavement. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand when his stomach is empty, and the heaving subsides.

His own choked off groan is that last thing he hears before the lights finally go out.

\--

“So much for that daring rescue I was hoping for.”

Jim groans, vision blurry as he tries to force his eyes open. He knows that voice and, crazy as it seems, he latches onto it like a beacon in the night. He tries to call out, but his tongue clings stubbornly to the roof of his dry mouth. Can’t be right. Penguin’s gone quiet…Jim hasn’t seen him in weeks.

No, he’s outside…

Running.

Harvey.

Something nudges him in the lower back. “Hey!”

Jim opens his eyes; it’s hard to focus but there’s someone there, hovering above him. He tries to reach out, thinks he makes it. “’Ey…’erself.”

“What the hell…” It is Oswald. Jim can see him clearly now, and he’s staring at Jim with wide, blue eyes. “Jim? Are you—did they tranq you?”

He thinks he’d remember that. “Nah…”

Oswald catches his hand; it’s hovering wildly off to the side. He pulls it in, places it down against Jim’s chest, but then he tries to pull away and Jim can’t let him leave. They aren’t friends, but Oswald is familiar at least, and Jim doesn’t want to be left alone here; doesn’t even know where ‘here’ is.

“Don’ go,” Jim pleads.

He watches Oswald’s brow pinch, tiny worry line forming just in the center. He feels something cool press against his forehead, and it makes him shiver. This place they’re in—it’s all dark corners and concrete walls and Jim’s so cold.

“You’re burning up,” Oswald says, and Jim shakes his head because there isn’t enough warmth left in this city to chase the chill from his bones.

“S’cold,” he argues.

“You haven’t been taking care of yourself, Jim,” Oswald says, reproachful.

Jim snorts. “S’the point?”

Oswald frowns as he replies, “Pneumonia doesn’t sound like a very heroic death, is all.”

It’s stated apathetically, like he doesn’t care if Jim lives or dies, but he hauls Jim up into a sitting position, grunts as he exerts himself dragging him across the floor. Jim’s head protests the change, at first, but then he’s propped up against a wall and breathing is a little easier this way, or maybe he just feels less like he’s being pressed down into the earth.

“Prob’ly make your life easier if I did though,” Jim says. There’s no heat behind it. He’s just stating a fact—Oswald would probably be running this city, bridges and all still intact—if Jim hadn’t got in his way. The thought makes him wonder which of them is the real villain, then. Jeremiah wouldn’t have stood a chance against an empowered Penguin. Not a goddamned snowball’s chance in hell.

“I confess—I’ve often considered it,” Oswald replies, though he doesn’t sound prideful or vindicated by Jim’s confirmation of what must surely be a regular impulse. If anything, Jim would say he seems…sad.

“Maybe you shoulda,” Jim mutters his thoughts aloud. “This whole mess—city gone to hell...I actually miss your god’amned licenses.”

Jim huffs a laugh at his own delirious ramblings, lets his head roll sideways along the wall. He expects, when he opens his bleary eyes, to see Oswald sneering at him victoriously. Expects to hear him gloat, thinks he probably deserves whatever it is Oswald has to say about him…about the Falcones. About how fucking stupid Jim had been to trust them. He's the one who set this ball into motion, he did this.

It’s a little unnerving then, to look up and see Oswald’s drawn expression, the color drained from his face as he stares back at Jim not with contempt but bold-faced worry. Jim can’t hold his gaze, suddenly feeling inexplicably ashamed. The quiet stretches between them, and there’s this weird clicking noise he tries to shake from his head before he realizes it’s this own teeth, chattering as he shivers.

There’s a quiet rustling beside him, and then he is draped in blessed, heavy warmth. It tickles his nose, the fur of Oswald’s overcoat, but Jim buries his face into it with a groan. Everything hurts, but the lining is silky against his bruised knuckles as he pulls it closer. He doesn’t know how long Oswald has been held hostage in this cold, empty room but his coat smells nice—like sandalwood and roses. It calms his roiling senses, sets the nauseous knots in his stomach at ease.

As he sits himself along Jim’s side, Oswald clears his throat. “Man is fond of counting his troubles, but he does not count his joys,” he quotes. Jim’s heard it before; the words of some long-dead philosopher.

Jim coughs, lungs full of fluid, chest aching with every harsh rattle. “Can’t count what isn’t there,” he replies, maybe a little too honestly. It’s been a while since Jim’s had anything to be joyous about.

There’s a beat of quiet, and then Oswald huffs, a soft breathy chuckle. “I know it may come as a surprise, but I was not well-liked among my childhood peers.”

“Kids can be cruel,” Jim says, feeling some need to offer comfort in exchange for…well, he’s practically swaddled in the man’s coat for fuck’s sake.

Oswald hums, then continues. “I hated all of them, couldn’t understand what I had done to incur such wrath. And I would come home angry, crying, and complain to my mother. Not just about my classmates, but everything I hated—the school, the boring homework, and especially God—that he couldn’t see fit to give me one single friend.”

“Oswald, I’m—”

“My mother,” Oswald continues, cutting off Jim’s feeble platitude, “she never said a word. Let me complain until I was out of breath. Then she would sit me down, and take up my hands,” Oswald recounts, voice fond as he holds up his hands where Jim can see them, “and say: You are a smart boy, Oswald, with two good hands, and ten fine fingers. What more do you need to shape the world?”

Jim licks his lips, rolls his head back along the wall to gaze up at the ceiling. He doesn’t mean to respond but he’s miserable and half delirious. He doesn’t have the capacity for his usual refrain.

“What if the shape your world takes doesn’t reflect your vision,” Jim asks, “and no matter how hard you try or how good your intentions are—at the end of every day, when you step back to see if your efforts made a difference…it’s all just a pile of shit?”

Oswald doesn’t say anything, not that Jim expected him to have an answer. He’d be embarrassed for having asked such a revealing question—waxing philosophical with Penguin of all people—but his head is heavy, eyes beginning to ache with the effort to keep them open.

He ought to be scouring the room for some means of escape. They should be comparing notes on their captors, trying to form a plan of action. Anything, really, except sitting here waiting, but Jim can't summon the energy to move. It’s hard enough just to hold his head up.

Eventually, he gives that up too. Lets it slide down to the side until it collides with Oswald’s bony shoulder. It’s still more comfortable than holding it up himself, and he sighs with the relief it brings his neck. Oswald twitches a little at the contact and suddenly Jim remembers the last time they’d been forced this close—closer, even. Oswald hadn’t liked it then, either.

“Sorry,” Jim mutters, preparing to huddle his way back up along the wall.

Oswald turns to his side as Jim struggles to right himself and catches him by the shoulders. Oswald pushes him up, then pulls him down onto his side, and the man is either stronger than he looks, or Jim really is weaker than a kitten right now. The room spins for a minute, the sudden movement jarring to his equilibrium.

There are cold hands around his neck then, and Jim jolts with adrenaline. Not that he can do much with it, his own arms trapped beneath the coat in which he has somehow managed to ensnare himself. He tries, ineffectually to kick himself away.

“Jim!” Oswald quietly urges. “Must everything be difficult?”

“Don’t, please—” Jim pleads, painfully aware that he’s let his guard down too far, as his exhausted body gives out.

The hands around his neck push him down, and Jim tries to resist yet again, before his lungs wheeze and he sends himself into a coughing fit. Oswald persists, huffing, as his hands slip around the back of Jim’s head guiding now instead of pulling. His forehead presses up against something silky and warm and Jim groans, now burrowing closer.

When the tilting sensation in his head finally subsides, body lax along the floor, Jim finally becomes aware of his new position. He’s been moved so that he can lay more comfortably, head propped up in Oswald’s lap, face buried in his stomach. Everything about Penguin is jagged and sharp, edges honed by foul experiences and survival, but here…

This is where he’s soft, and maybe it’s the flu talking, but it feels significant that he’s been allowed to see it…feel it. There are other small comforts, given silently, that aren’t easily reconciled with the man Jim knows in the daylight. Like gentle fingers, sifting through his hair, meant to comfort; a firm hand that cradles Jim against him, rubbing soothingly between his shoulder blades.

More, there’s the quiet words whispered from above. “That’s it, easy. It’s alright, Jim.”

None of it makes sense. This isn’t…they aren’t friends. Yet, Oswald has been kind to him since he woke up here. There’s no benefit—none that Jim can see, anyway—to caring for Jim like this. The authority Jim wields over the no man’s land that Gotham has become is tenable at best. Oswald’s ilk, they still have the run of a large swathe of this city and they know it.

So, maybe it’s situational—an instinct brought forth under duress. Their captors could decide to stomp in at any time and shoot them both. Hell, maybe this is all just a fever dream and Jim is still lying unconscious against that dumpster. Whatever it is, Jim will take it. That probably makes him pathetic, but Jim likes being touched; likes to be held. And it’s been a long time since he’s been given more than a pat on the back or a punch in the face. This is much more pleasant by compare, it’s…

It’s intimate. An imitation of something authentic, but it’s close enough to real that Jim keeps his eyes closed. Pretends his life isn’t nearly as empty as it is when he lays in bed at night, staring at the ceiling and wondering how it all went to hell so quickly. They’re making progress toward rebuilding—the bridges are nearly done, there’s ferries bringing food and supplies and, most importantly, personnel back into the city.

There’s a light at the end of the tunnel, but they’re still in the tunnel and sometimes it’s all he can see; all he can feel. Surrounded by darkness on every side, where it’s cold and lonely, and yeah, Jim fucking needs this. He doesn’t care if it’s real; doesn’t care whose hands those are, chasing away the emptiness. He frees an arm from beneath the warmth of his makeshift blanket, winds it around Oswald’s back and pulls himself closer. He’ll fucking take it.

“S’nice…” Jim mutters, shamelessly nuzzling into Oswald’s body heat.

Oswald’s hands still for a moment, his voice startled as he quietly inquires, “Jim?”

Definitely real. Of course, Oswald would never be openly concerned. Too bad. Jim’s been awake this whole time, if not wholly coherent. He has no intention of letting Oswald renege either, shamelessly pushing his head against the limp hand in his hair. Like a fuckin' dog.

Still, Oswald takes the hint and, more, he acquiesces to the silent demand. Jim conceals a smile against the man’s stomach as he hums in approval, feeling entirely too self-satisfied.

Woof. Woof.

To his credit, Oswald doesn’t say anything disparaging about Jim’s behavior. Maybe he chalks it up to the fever, which: convenient. Instead, an easy silence settles between them, and Jim is well on his way to sleeping when Oswald clears his throat. Jim angles his head, glances up to find those sharp blue eyes warily contemplating him.

“Go ahead,” Jim challenges, “say it. Whatever it is.”

Oswald presses his lips into a thin line, as if fighting to maintain his silence. He gives it up with a sigh, says, “What you said earlier, Jim, about things not turning out how you intended.”

“Pile of shit,” Jim repeats. The hand in his hair pauses, thumb rubbing consolingly along his temple. He feels it when Oswald sighs, air whooshing free of his diaphragm.

“You didn’t cause this, Jim,” he says. His eyes are haunted as he continues, “There’s something…wicked about this city. I know it sounds crazy,” he is quick to add, “but I’ve seen it. I’ve…felt it. So have you.”

“Strange’s creations…”

“No,” Oswald interrupts. “This isn’t…mad science. It’s worse, and I know I told you I’ve thought about removing you from the picture, but the truth is…”

Jim finds his eyes. Curious, he prompts, “What?”

“I will deny I ever said this,” Oswald states, and then his entire demeanor softens, his eyes stare back at Jim with startling warmth. “There are few bright corners in Gotham, day or night, but even when you’re cold, James Gordon, you always shine.

“And you are…vexing, but…” Oswald shrugs, a tiny rueful grin quirking his lips. “The truth is, I could never bring myself to snuff you out.”

Jim blinks, at a loss for words. “Oh.”

“Truly,” Oswald wryly agrees, leaning his head back against the wall as he idly massages Jim’s scalp. Like he’s not even aware he’s doing it anymore. Maybe Jim isn’t the only one starving for contact.

There’s a loud gurgling against his ear, a too-empty stomach, and Jim frowns. “How long you been here?”

“It was Tuesday when they took me,” he answers. “Stormed the castle, so to speak.”

“I passed out behind a dumpster when they were pursuing me,” Jim admits, resentfully. “Thursday.”

Oswald huffs. “Figures.”

“Harv’ll find us,” he assures.

“Before or after we expire?” is Oswald’s cynical rejoinder.

“Probably after,” Jim retorts.

To his surprise, Oswald actually laughs. “Optimism is in short supply these days, is it not?”

“So is descent soup,” he bemoans.

“Is that what you plan to do if we’re found alive?” Oswald’s nails scratch gently along his hairline. It feels good; makes him groggy. “Gorge yourself on chicken noodle soup?”

“Bathe in it,” Jim corrects, tongue heavy as he fights to stay awake.

Oswald giggles, then sighs. “You should get some rest, Jim. Not much else to do, after all.”

Jim grunts, eyes slipping closed as he mumbles, “Hate waiting.”

“Good things come to those who wait,” Oswald recites, and maybe Jim is disoriented but it feels as if the arm along his back hugs him closer for just the barest of moments before he finally loses the battle with sleep.

\--

The next time Jim wakes up, it isn’t half as gently. There’s shouting and gunfire, frantic chaos and swirling colors. He’s pulled and pushed roughly around, head spinning. He thinks maybe he vomits again, trying to fight off his assailants.

He hears snatches of an argument.

Oswald’s voice is defensive. “He’s obviously sick, you idiot!”

“Yeah? Why’s that? What’d you give him?” Harvey, Jim faintly recognizes.

“Me?” Oswald is sneering, and Jim can almost picture his expression. “Go to hell, Bullock.”

“You first, you sniveling, little frea—”

Jim groans. They’re both so loud.

“Jim?”

He tries to reassure his friend that he’s fine, but he can’t make his tongue work. Everything is too much effort and he’s exhausted by the simple attempt to think clearly. Mercifully, it all drowns out as he drifts away yet again.

\--

The skeleton staff at Gotham General pump Jim full of fluids, tell him he’s got viral pneumonia. They keep him there for a handful of days before sending him home with a bottle of antibiotics and orders to avoid any strenuous activities for at least a week. Harvey drives him home, lets Jim lean against him as they climb the stairs to his apartment.

“Guess Penguin wasn’t lyin’,” Harvey muses as they reach the landing to Jim’s floor. “You were sicker than a dog, Jimbo. Threw up all over Lucius.”

Jim grimaces. “Shit.”

“No. Vomit,” Harvey teases. “Shoulda seen his face.”

“Pass,” Jim insists, pulling his keys from his trouser pocket.

Harvey eases Jim down onto the couch once they’re inside, before heading into the kitchen. He comes back with a glass of water in one hand, shaking Jim’s pills in the other.

“Time for your daily dose, buddy,” he says cheerfully.

Jim huffs, does the man’s bidding before laying his head back against the couch. It’s good to be home, lonely as it feels sometimes. It’s familiar, at least, and mostly safe. Safer than it was a few months ago, certainly, when the city was nearly lawless. Things are looking up, despite the long road still ahead.

The thought reminds him of Oswald—the bits and pieces he can remember from being holed up together. He’s still a little foggy on the details, but what he does recall is…kindness. The memory is an uncomfortable one, mostly because it comes with a sense of reluctant appreciation. They’re opponents in this ongoing shitshow, yet Oswald hadn’t met him with cruelty or malice.

He’d cared for Jim, and not even for the first time. Not if he counted the fiasco with the Riddler a couple months ago. He’d been kind, if begrudgingly so, back then too. Mostly, thinking about it is uncomfortable because Jim had liked it so much. And it isn’t just desperation or loneliness, though that is definitely a component, but there’s a certain fragile trust to it.

‘You and I share a bond,’ Oswald had once said, though it isn’t just in Theo Galavan anymore. Jim isn't certain it ever was.

“You gonna be alright by yourself, Jim?” Harvey asks, pulling Jim from his thoughts. Thank Christ.

Jim shrugs, thinks of the men Bruce hired to watch over the remaining civilians in the city. There’s at least six down on the ground, guarding Jim’s building. Who knows where else they’re watching from. Frankly, it’s a little unnerving, but Jim plans on sleeping through the majority of his discomfort.

“I’ll be fine,” he replies honestly. “Feeling better already.”

Harvey snorts. “Yeah, right.”

Despite his assurances, Harvey hangs around for a little while longer until Jim is fighting to keep his eyes open. He wakes up enough to see Harvey out, but his plans to crash into bed are waylaid by the demands of an empty stomach. Warily, he pads into the kitchen, bracing himself for disappointment and potential mold, and opens the fridge.

He doesn’t realize his mouth has even dropped open until he whimpers loudly enough that the sound of his own voice shocks him into snapping it shut again with a click. Every shelf of his refrigerator is stocked with fresh groceries—eggs, meat, cheese, milk, vegetables and fruit. There’s not an empty corner. He opens the freezer and sees that all of his ice trays have been neatly filled, and there’re unopened pints of ice cream, popsicles, and a host of assorted Rubbermaid containers labeled neatly with the names of prepared dishes.

He pulls a couple out, finding lasagna, broccoli casserole, jambalaya and cabbage rolls among them. His chest hurts, though it has nothing to do with his pneumonia. Bruce and his supporters have only recently managed to convince corporations to reopen their doors within the city, shipping their inventory in by ferry to the docks, and the grocers are a big part of that new activity.

They’ve all been subsiding on dry goods and rations dropped into the city by helicopter. It’s dramatic, the way the rest of the country had reacted, so willing to abandon them at first as if they were somehow more terrorized by Jeremiah than the people who actually lived through it. It reminded Jim of a war-torn country, and in some ways, it had been. Jeremiah’s mark upon the city will never fully be erased, but they get closer to some semblance of normal every day.

Jim’s staring at the evidence right now, overwhelmed by its presence. Any one of his friends—Bruce, Harvey, Lucius—could have done this for him. Somehow, Jim knows they didn’t. Not because they wouldn’t but because, like Jim, they’re all occupied with continuing their work. It’s easy to get lost in it, when the job is so big.

Besides, he recognizes Oswald’s sharp scrawl. He wonders if these are leftovers from his own meals, or if he made them for this purpose especially. He remembers, suddenly, the soft press of Oswald’s stomach against his ear, its angry growl. A little of both, maybe, he thinks.

He’s about to shut the freezer, throw a sandwich together because he’s noticed the loaf of bread on the counter, when he sees it. It’s a tall, round container with a tiny folded paper taped to the top. When he pulls it out, the contents are clearly discernible.

Chicken noodle soup.

It’s with a rapidly constricting throat that Jim carefully frees the folded paper from the lid. He doesn’t read it immediately, though he can’t place the cause for his reluctance. It isn’t until he’s sitting at the table, steaming bowl of reheated homemade soup before him, that he finally finds the courage to unfold it. The message, short and actually, yeah, kind of sweet, brings a genuine smile to his face.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Quick nod to Belle Reve. This is the facility where Suicide Squad becomes a thing. I think it's safe to say they probably don't end up using Jeremiah. Lord knows where he'll end up, but that's another story that I am definitely not writing. <3 lol


	3. Trapped in the Closet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim runs into Oswald during a sting operation involving an illegal arms dealer. Shit goes awry when the operation is compromised and Jim and Oswald are forced to take cover together. In a closet. A very, very small and dark closet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, two updates in one week. We are trucking right along here at the half-way point!

It isn’t some twisted sense of gratitude that keeps Jim from alerting his team to the Penguin’s presence. Rather, if Jim broadcasts it over the airwaves, he can’t guarantee it won’t alert their real target to it as well. They’ve been trying to pin down a new arms dealer, taking advantage of the city’s current predicament. According to Ivy, the guy’s a big name in the legal arms trade too but she refused to say any more.

“I know how this works,” she’d said. “I tell you a name, they come for me. I’m only helping you because their practices are an ecological nightmare and I don’t want them in Gotham.”

She’d gassed him, and Jim had woken up hours later inside a dumpster on Seventy-Fifth. Not his finest moment, though it beats waking up strapped beneath a giant compacting hammer. He still cringes whenever he hears the phrase ‘rise and shine.’ Fucking Riddler. And he’s only gotten more unpredictable since Strange got his hands on him. Something Jim would have never known had Lee not come to him, shaking and confused days after apparently being resurrected.

Jim had tried to help her, but if she weren’t the same person he’d been in love with before, she definitely isn’t now. It’s just another reason Jim shouldn’t give a damn about Oswald. He’d been the one to entrust them to Strange, and Jim can’t say what he’d have done if he’d been the one to find them but Hugo Strange would not have ranked high on the list. On the other hand, could he really bring himself to bury Lee? Especially feeling the way he had back then…

It’s another moral conundrum. Seems like that’s all he knows where Penguin is concerned. The man does these horrible things for seemingly very selfish reasons though Jim comes to find that his true purpose is often obscured. Sometimes, it aligns dangerously close to his own, and can Jim honestly say he’s never used the same tactics for the supposed greater good?

Hell, they’ve even worked together a time or two, and maybe that’s what really bothers him. The fact that Oswald can blatantly do what he views is necessary and not feel conflicted afterward. Jim eats himself up over it, every time, and Oswald just…moves forward. Constantly progressing, always persevering and it’d be insufferable if Jim didn’t find it so admirable.

The general consensus on the Penguin is that he’s always at least thirty steps ahead, which is why Jim sees fit to wait and watch rather than call it in over the radio. The only reason Oswald would be here now is because he knows something. Jim wants to figure out what that is before the man gets himself killed—that’s all it is.

Jim watches, positioned in an alley adjacent to the warehouse where they’ve determined the dealer makes his trades, as Oswald checks his surroundings before quietly scaling the fire escape. Jim frowns; can’t be fun with that leg of his, but Oswald makes impressively short work of it. He disappears from view for a moment before he reappears, this time surrounded by three heavily armed guards.

“Shit,” Jim swears, checking his sidearm. He might be in range, but if he’s wrong and the bullet falls short, he’ll give away their entire operation. He’s dangerously close to giving up his cover, for reasons he refuses to look at directly, when they back Oswald up against the low cement ledge of the building. Before he can make the call, all three men fall at once and Oswald is once again out of view.

Jim checks the surrounding rooftops until he spots a familiar bald head. He arches an eyebrow; this is a new development. They must have resolved their differences, or Oswald is desperate for experienced gunmen. And Victor Zsasz is nothing if not revered in the world of hired guns, a fact that’s reinforced by the cheeky salute he gives Jim when he notices him gazing up in his direction. Jim returns his salute with a single-fingered variation before returning his attention to the warehouse.

Oswald is making his way back down the fire escape. When he clears the cross street, Jim makes his move, ducking out from his cover to seize Oswald from behind. He places a gloved hand over the man’s mouth and pulls him into the alley. He doesn’t come without a fight, bucking against Jim all the while until he spins him around and pins Oswald against the dirty brick wall. Once he recognizes Jim as his captor, the panic in his eyes transitions swiftly into fury.

“Easy,” Jim whispers, taking his hand from Oswald’s mouth. Oz rolls his eyes, silently raises his hand to make a curt gesture, and that’s when Jim sees a tiny red dot skitter along the wall before disappearing entirely. 

“To what do I owe the displeasure?” Oswald demands haughtily.

“How about you tell me what a guy like you is doing in a place like this?” Jim asks testily. He gives a short nod toward the warehouse. “What do you know about all this?”

Oswald glares, then huffs. “Walk away, Jim.”

“What—”

“He’s not here to hinder the rebuilding efforts, alright?” Oswald adds, “But he is dangerous, and he is well-connected. One arm of hundreds, do you hear me?”

“Sounds like a hinderance,” Jim argues, “for everything we’re trying to leave behind.”

“Typical.” Oswald snorts. “Haven’t you learned yet when to bend? How to pick your battles?”

Jim huffs, moving away as he shakes his head, but Oswald seizes him by the lapels, forcing Jim’s attention. “There will always be crime, Jim. Always. If ridding Gotham of crime entirely is your goal, then why rebuild the bridges at all? You may as blow it up yourself.”

“That’s not—”

“They’re old players,” Oswald interjects, “and powerful. This isn’t like Barb, she isn’t even willing to put up a fight and you know how much that woman hates losing.”  

Jim’s jaw works as he regards Oswald. He’s about to push for more information, a name at the very least so that if it begins to threaten their operations, Jim will know where to start. Before he can so much as open his mouth, the perimeter around the warehouse lights up.

“Jim, we’ve been made,” Harvey barks over his radio.

He snatches it from his belt, as Oswald regards him shiftily. “I noticed. Get the men out, regroup at the designated place to compare notes.”

Jim turns back to Oswald accusingly. “Your doing?”

The man averts his eyes, and Jim snaps, gripping Oswald by the wrist. “Fine.” He pulls out his cuffs, Penguin groaning loudly in frustration. “Oswald Cobblepot, you are under arrest for obstruction of justice—”

There’s a commotion near the mouth of the alley, two men rushing toward them with guns drawn and Jim raises his own. Oswald pushes into his space then, popping the umbrella he uses as a cane, shielding them from a spray of bullets. The rounds ricochet off the screen of the umbrella, in a flurry of fire bursts like blazing popcorn. Jim watches, mystified as the deflected bullets lodge into the walls of the alley around them, and into the bodies of their assailants. 

“What the fuck—”

“Exactly what it looks like,” Oswald barks, impatiently. “And not to sound critical but do you think we can get the hell out of here before the cuffs go on?”

Duly chastised, but damned if he’s going to admit it, Jim growls as he pulls Oswald down toward the other end of the alley. They’re close to making the next street when shadows dance beneath the street lights, and Jim veers them off toward a doorway he spies in his peripheral. They squeeze into the doorjamb, Oswald at his back while Jim shoulders the door into submission. It opens with a loud screech of its hinges which doesn’t go unnoticed.

“I got two in the alley!” Someone shouts, and the slap of feet against pavement swiftly follows.

“Fuck!” Jim mutters under his breath and he and Oswald push into the darkened building. They bar the door with a hastily placed filing cabinet and it’s then that Jim recognizes the building as the old printing press for the Gotham Gazette. Back before they relocated it in the seventies.

His inner history nerd yearns to explore the old cob-webbed machines, browse decades old headlines of news gone past, but there’s no time for tourism. Whoever these men are, they’re already working against their shotty barricade, their efforts rattling the filing cabinet precariously.

“Jim!” Oswald calls under his breath, a whispered shout for his attention. “Over here.”

Jim can just make out his crouched silhouette in the dim lighting that filters in from the street through the boarded-up windows. He kneels down beside him to see Oswald pulling at the molding of a square embellishment in the stairwell. It begins to peel away from the wall, and Jim can’t help the tiny smile that overtakes his face as he gets to work helping to remove it.

A hidden storage closet.

It comes free, both of them grunting as it unbinds from its station. Tiny dust particles plume out between them, and Jim waves them away as Oswald climbs inside the revealed cubby. Jim follows once he’s clear, eyes on the door which threatens to fold beneath the onslaught any minute. He’s trying to figure out how they’re going to get the cover back in place to conceal them from view when he hears the unmistakable ‘slinkt’ of a switch blade.

Oswald reaches past, stabs his blade into the wood and uses it as a handle to guide it back into place with Jim’s assistance. Together, they manage to seal themselves inside just before a resounding crash announces the arrival of their stalkers. There’s a hand at his waist suddenly, and Jim flinches at the unexpected contact, knocking his forehead against Oswald’s.

“Turn off your radio!” Oswald angrily whispers.

Adrenaline kicking, Jim unpins his walkie as quietly and hastily as possible within their close quarters. He feels for the dial—it’s near pitch black in the cubby, Oswald’s crouched form barely visible—and turns it until it clicks. He then fishes his phone from his pocket, pressing the power button on the side until he feels it vibrate to signal its shutdown.

Jim focuses the entirety of his attention to listening, heart picking up whenever the voices of the men outside come too close, or the heels of their boots scuff the floor just outside. The men searching for them are thorough, however, and soon Jim can feel himself sweating with the exertion of maintaining such an unforgiving position. Quietly, he reaches out to feel around, trying to gauge their available space.

It isn’t much.

The stairway they’re under is narrow, pitched up at a low angle. He can’t sit up any further, and there’s nowhere to go behind him. Oswald is shaking against him, where their bent thighs press together, and Jim suspects the position is even less comfortable for him. He wishes their pursuers would give it up already, but whoever this new dealer is, his men are incredibly determined.

“They can’t have gotten far,” Jim hears their leader say. “There’s no other way out! Search every corner—they have to be somewhere inside this building!”

There’s no verbal reply from any of his underlings, but the cacophony of boots on the stairs overhead reveal their compliance. Jim sees it as an opportunity for them to move, whatever sounds they make camouflaged by the hustle of the men outside. He bends forward, hooks an arm under Oswald’s right knee and another around his back.

“Relax,” he whispers under his breath when Oswald flinches. “Hang on to my shoulders.”

Oswald remains tense, but he allows Jim to help him maneuver out of his crouch. Although, when it comes time to bend his bad knee straight, Oswald buries his face in Jim’s shoulder, his pain exhaled harshly against his neck like a silent scream. Jim pulls him closer, practically onto his lap, so he can bear his weight better as he slowly lowers Oswald’s back to the floor.

Jim follows him down, and it’s difficult in the dark to find a position that’s comfortable for both of them. Ultimately, he is forced to lay on his side, propped up on his elbow with his back to the stacks of boxes along the wall, the rest of him curled over Oswald’s supine sprawl. Jim is aware of their intimate position, but he’s suitably distracted by Oswald’s labored breaths, and the way he’s still clinging to Jim’s shoulders.

He can feel the man’s pain-induced tremors, body twitching against his own, and it’s not something he can ignore. And, okay, maybe Jim does feel a little…indebted to the guy; he did give him an entire kitchen full of groceries last month, not to mention the other kindnesses he afforded Jim while he was sick. Or, the fact that he didn’t take advantage of Jim’s weakened condition.

It’s in the spirit of reciprocation that Jim reaches down and circles his thumb around Oswald’s knee, trying to assess it by feel. He’s never actually seen the damage in person but, from what he can discern, it’s pretty extensive. The kneecap is slightly out of place, never properly healed and his ankle must be even worse. Probably where most of the pain is, actually, but Jim can’t reach it. Of course, Oswald tenses even further the second Jim begins to touch his knee with any kind of intent.

“I can stop if you want,” Jim quietly tells him, stroking his thumb downward along the areas just outside the damaged region.

Oswald inhales sharply, as if he’s about to tell Jim exactly where he can shove his assistance. It comes as a surprise then, when instead of a harsh rebuke, Oswald lets loose a resigned sigh. His grip on Jim’s shoulders finally slacken, hands sliding down along his biceps, the closest he can probably come to letting go given their current arrangement.

“I…” Oswald starts, shifts slightly, then says, “Please, continue.”

Jim huffs a breathy laugh. “Just tell me if I press on anything sore.”

He’d call him on being a haughty little prick, but he senses the fragility of whatever truce they’ve established here; In these moments that are becoming entirely too frequent as of late. There’s an unspoken agreement, a very literal cease-fire, between them where the battle lines blur. It isn’t something Jim has with anyone else which is a somewhat dangerous notion to confront. He’d never allow Barb this close again, he knows, or be able to sleep within so much as a hundred feet of the Riddler, let alone pressed up beside him.

This thing they’ve done—that they do, sometimes—it’s exclusive. At least, it is for Jim though he’s willing to bet Oswald doesn’t walk around in his downtime offering free hugs to his band of goons.

No, whatever this is: it’s theirs and it exists in a realm of its own, outside their everyday reality. And Jim isn’t sure how to feel about that—about what it means—so he focuses his full attention on repaying a bit of the kindness Oswald has granted him in the past. It’s just a matter of evening the scales a bit, he tells himself. He still plans on arresting Penguin the moment these persistent fuckers give up the hunt.

“Thank you, Jim,” Oswald whispers, then, and there’s a hand over the back of Jim’s own, lifting it off and up but he doesn’t release it. And he can’t see the features of Oswald’s face in the dark, can’t derive his intention, but loose fingers cradle his own between the soft rise and fall of their stomachs.

“‘S no problem,” Jim mumbles, feeling vastly out of his depth as he adjusts his position slightly to lay his head down onto Oswald’s chest, ear homing in on the steady tempo of the tell-tale heart beneath.

It’s different this time, at least, in the way Jim is neither too tired nor too sick to appreciate their proximity beyond its inherent warmth and comfort. Oswald doesn’t typically come across as soft, exuding a cutting ruthlessness in person—in their waking world. He’s immaculate and cold, like marble. Even when he’s not riding high, there’s something ethereal about him; something you can try to contain but never truly touch.

Here, up close, Oswald is…shy. The fingers that find their way into Jim’s hair are hesitant, uncertain. It’s so unlike the Penguin persona he’s embraced, the part of himself that no longer has to strive to project a confidence that always used to ring false somehow. He’s thrived in this remade city, always at his best when forced to be resourceful. And yet he touches Jim with such gentle inquiry, fingers carefully sifting through his hair, while his other hand cautiously maps the back of Jim’s hand.

It’s like he’s afraid Jim will tell him to stop any second, rescind his unspoken invitation to touch with the slightest provocation—and he would stop. If Jim asked him. It’s this that boggles Jim’s mind more than anything, the dichotomy between who Oswald is when they’re both out there in reality and the person he’s shown in these sparse moments in between.

He’d question its authenticity but that’s the thing—Jim knows which face is easier to wear, and maybe that’s why he allows it. With everything that’s happened—when else do either of them have the opportunity to drop the masks? It shouldn’t be so easy to slip into one another’s space, to let their differences fall away, but it is easy. Comfortable, even.

And it isn’t just the way Oswald touches him, either. Jim finds comfort in his smell, something he’d never noticed before being wrapped in the man’s coat but now that he has, Jim purposefully seeks it out. It’s floral and woodsy, like wild roses in a forest, growing up the trunk of an age-old tree. If Penguin is ethereal, Oswald is the earth itself—undeniably real, something Jim can sink his fingers into and feel.

“Jim?” Oswald disrupts his thoughts, sparing him from following his train of thought any further down the rabbit hole. “Would you—”

He cuts himself off abruptly, and Jim can feel him shaking his head. “Forget I said anything. It’s inappropriate.”

Well. Now he’s curious. “Not really in much of a place to judge,” Jim wryly cajoles. “I’m basically purring over here.”

The fingers sifting through his hair stutter to a halt, as if Oswald has only just realized that he’s been petting Jim this entire time. Jim squeezes the fingers still cradling his hand; a wordless encouragement. His scalp massage resumes, and Jim sighs quietly with satisfaction.

“C’mon,” Jim urges dramatically under his breath, “we could die any minute, Oz.”

“Oz?” Oswald parrots, clearly taken aback.

“Oz- _wald_ ,” Jim corrects, “sorry. It just—”

Slipped out, he means to say, but Oswald cuts him off.

“It’s—I don’t hate it,” he interjects, timidly. “If you want…you can—I don’t mind.” He huffs. “S’better than ‘Pengy,’ at any rate.”

“Oz…” Jim cautiously tries it out. “What were you going to ask me?”

“I—”

There’s a racket from outside and, suddenly, it dawns on Jim that he’d forgotten where they were for a minute. He can’t remember the last time he heard any motion from inside the building. Shaken, he reaches for his service arm at his waist, pulls it from the holster. His senses are dialed back up to a hundred as Jim listens to the approach of heavy boots on the old wooden floor.

“Jim?” Harvey’s frantic voice calls from the room outside, and he slumps with relief.

“Oh, thank fuck.” Jim sighs, leaning over Oswald to pound against the wall. “In here!” He calls.

He can feel the air change between them, Oswald’s hands falling away, pulled tightly to his own body. Jim mourns the loss of their bubble, and it’s wholly impulsive, but he bends down to press their foreheads together. Wants just one more second of their quiet illusion.

Oswald’s exhales like the air is forced from his lungs by a massive weight before Jim quickly pulls away. The door to their hideaway is yanked free in the next moment, and there’s a too-bright beam of flashlight shining in his eyes.

“Well, ain’t this cozy?” Harvey teases, shining his light between the two of them. “I’ve been looking all over for your dumbass, and here you are having a nap with your boyfriend.”

“Fuck off, Harv,” Jim replies, picking up what looks like a broken off key from an old type-writer and flicking it into the man’s face. “We got cornered by that asshole’s lackeys.”

Harvey chuckles, then reaches out a hand. “Come on, love birds, let’s get you outta there.”

\--

There’s a lot of paperwork associated with making an arrest, especially when it’s a criminal with a file as large as Penguin’s. And it’s late, Jim’s charge of obstruction is shaky at best and he figures, being trapped in a tiny space is punishment enough for withholding information. Besides, that flashy new umbrella gives Jim an idea for a possible in next time their dealer comes around, if custom weapons are something trades. But Oswald is right, much as Jim is loath to admit it—this isn’t an operation that threatens their progress to reconnect with the rest of the country. Besides, the bastard’s made his sales and the warehouse they’d been casing is already empty.

Jim will catch him eventually.

In the meantime, he’s content to go home and fall into bed, not that sleep is easily forthcoming. His thoughts are occupied with someone they ought not be occupied by, and Jim doesn’t want to examine the reasons for his restlessness. He tosses and turns, until finally he kicks off the blankets to let his skin cool in the open air of his apartment.

It’s just been a long time, is all. And Oswald isn’t convenient, sure as hell isn’t safe—not that Jim feels unsafe when they’re…like they were tonight. When they’re close. It’s just…fuck. He can’t get it out of his head, can still feel those fingers in his hair, tender caresses across his knuckles and Jim—

It’s loneliness. It didn’t even cross his mind when Oz— _Oswald—_ was beside him. Now though, hand creeping dangerously low, it’s all Jim can think about. What if, instead of on his side, Jim had rested between Oswald’s legs? What if the hands in his hair were less tentative, more demanding, what if—

Jim closes his eyes, puts himself back under that stairwell and imagines how it might have felt. How Oswald’s breaths might have stuttered if Jim had put his nose behind his ear, breathed him in and exhaled against his skin. He wouldn’t have stopped at Oz’s knee, would have ran his hand up along his thigh—God, Oz has nice fucking thighs—and Jim can imagine how they’d feel, squeezing around his hips, if Jim were to strip Oswald bare and push himself between them.

Jim’s hand slips into his sweats, fists his cock at the thought and he groans at the sweet relief of pressure where he’s been denying attention for far too long. He pushes up into his grip, wonders if Oswald likes to get fucked. Jim would make it good for him, slick him up with his fingers until he’s begging for it. Then, he’d—

“Fuck!” Jim quietly swears, pulse ratcheting as he rapidly approaches climax. He feels half-drunk with how badly he wants, giving voice to his desire in the dark of his bedroom. “God, I’d fuck ‘im so good…”

Jim can’t stop it. He’s too hot, too deprived to take it slow, draw out the fantasy. He works himself over the edge in a too-quick, desperate frenzy, lays there in a daze afterward, the evidence cooling on his skin. His body is finally quiet, but his mind continues to whir along troublesome new paths.

Yeah, Jim wants him; he’s admired him in an abstract way. From a distance, at a glance. Acknowledged, and easily dismissed. It’s just that finding someone physically attractive isn’t the same as wanting to spend time with them. And here Jim is, lying in his post-orgasmic haze wanting the impossible, arm stretched out, fingers twitching like he’s waiting for someone to entwine them with their own. Jim rubs a hand down his face, forces himself to get up and scrub himself clean.

He’s still thinking about it all when he returns to bed, albeit without the same restless energy of earlier. Maybe it’s a dumb thing to do, but he pulls his phone off the nightstand, heedless of the time. Jim taps out a text because there’s a lot of shit on his mind, but this one thing especially.

_What were you gonna ask me?_

The reply from Oswald is surprisingly swift, like maybe he’s up thinking about it too, and how fucked is it that the thought puts a smile on his face as Jim reads his response:

 _Next time._ ;)


	4. So Text Me, Maybe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unable to sleep, Jim sends a text to Oswald that he immediately regrets. The consequences of which force Jim to face some harsh truths about his current modus operandi. 
> 
> This trope is newer, but well on its way to classic: The 'ol, drunk/sleepy/drugged text trope. Where one, or both, of our protagonists expose a little too much of their feelings in a text. And then later, get confronted by the other protagonist about those revealing messages.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please heed the tags. I know I've said it before, and last chapter didn't really allow for the same kind of character exposition as there was in chapter 2, regarding Jim's depression, but it is VERY prominent here. _**I did NOT tag this fic for suicide ideation because that's not exactly what's going on, but there is a very frank discussion about suicidal themes.**_ So, there's the chapter warning!

The problem with ‘next time’ is that Jim has no idea when or if there will even be a next time. Those quiet little moments with Oswald aren’t planned, and all the times previous have only occurred because one or both of them were in life threatening situations. And it’s been a few days since Jim sent that text, and he hasn’t had the courage to send another one. Shouldn’t have sent the first one, and opened that can of worms at all—the one that says if he texts, Oswald will reply—because that line of communication between them has never been open.

Until now.

Sort of.

Maybe.

He doesn’t think he and Oswald have ever just had a conversation. He tries to think back—all the way back—to the beginning, and over the years. Usually, when they come face to face, and even on the few occasions they’ve worked together, things between them are…strained. If they’re not trying to remove each other from the board, they’re using one another to remove someone else. Despite Oswald’s tendency to use the phrase, they aren’t actually ‘old friends.’ They were never friends at all. He knows that’s not what he meant, back then, calling them friends but Jim can’t help observing the full extent of the word’s misuse. They’d been cohorts at best, enemies at every other turn.

They’re still two people at odds, even now. Oswald’s face is decaled onto buildings all over town, marking his territory. Territory that doesn’t belong to him, frankly. It almost reminds Jim of his mayoral campaign, only this time he’s happily stolen every mile of that influence. Jim and the rest of the people fighting for the city are slowly taking it back, but every day it’s a struggle to see how their efforts will make any difference. There’s no foreseeable way to correct the imbalance of power between the authority and the criminal enterprises taking root. And Oswald is a massive player in that enterprise.

Still, none of that stops Jim from thinking about it. It’s his job—his mission—to bring Gotham back from the brink. They’ve made progress—restored power to the city, organized waste management, trained folks to run the city’s water plant and reclaimed miles of safe residency for those left behind—but none of it feels like enough. It’s the barest of necessities, and their progress is tenuous at best, easily reversed by someone like Jeremiah or Victor Fries. It’s slow going, especially since it took the federal government so long to red tape their way into providing Jim’s people with the support they deserve.

Even so, they’ve got a projected two-year estimation for the completion of the main bridge. Until then, everything in and out of the city comes in through the docks. It’s the primary focus of their resources, keeping that area safe for workers and civilians alike. The effort is a constant struggle, and it’s impossible to track the origins of every shipping container that comes in, to know their contents before they’re unloaded. Illegal weapons, drugs, and raids are a continuous source of anxiety. And Oz— _Oswald_ —is a component of that.

Jim shouldn’t be thinking about him at all, except in terms of how to bring him down. During the day, it’s isn’t so difficult to keep it under wraps. There’re a hundred other things that require his attention but, in those rare idle moments and especially at night, Jim’s mind wanders back to that place. He just…can’t reconcile it—the kindness, the care—with the same man that’s probably responsible for at least a third of the bodies they drag out of the river.

Not to mention the long list of his other crimes, which keep Jim strung out for days at a time as he tries to unravel the man’s schemes. Jim should be trying to find ways to take him out, not fantasizing about the next time they’ll end up alone. Yet, fantasize he does, and with alarming frequency and not even in the sexy way. Though, he’s certainly done that a couple more times as well. Mostly, Jim tries to remember the feel of fingers in his hair, the surprisingly soft angles of a body so close to his own. Tenuous trust; unprecedented acceptance.

Jim tries to remember a time when he wanted normal things—to get married, buy a house, raise children—but even that is marred by the types of people he’s tried to have them with; Barb, Lee. Hell, Sophia. Jim thinks, maybe, he has a type. Or questionable taste, at the very least, considering they’ve all tried to kill him at least once. To Oswald’s credit, for all they’ve been at each other’s throats in the past, Jim’s never feared him in that way. If what Oswald said recently is true, he’s never even viewed killing Jim as an option.

Does it count as progress if his attraction to a murderer isn’t fatal to himself? Probably not, Jim muses, as he rolls himself over onto his side. Sleep continues to elude him, as usual. He reaches over to the nightstand, flipping the face of his phone so he can see the time. He’s been lying in bed for just over an hour, after—miracle of miracles—getting home before ten in the evening.

It’s eleven-oh-eight, and his apartment is quiet save for the sounds of Bruce’s men shuffling around the building, probably preparing to change shifts. In a few weeks, the Army Reserve will arrive in the city, this time working in collaboration with the remaining GCPD and Wayne Enterprise’s hired militia. No more trying to run a show the government doesn’t understand, but extra hands to spare. In the meantime, relaxation doesn’t come easy—sleeping even less so and he likens this deprivation to walking around in a constant fog. It’s what Jim plans to blame in the morning, when he thinks back to this moment, for what he finally texts Oswald.

 _Am I a shitty person?_ He taps out, presses send before he can examine his motives too closely. Replace the words with something less honest. The reply doesn’t come immediately, but a few minutes later, his phone pings. 

_I don’t know if I should feel insulted or flattered that you think I can answer that. Are you asking in the sense that ‘it takes one to know one’ or do you truly think of me so highly? I fear I already know the answer._

Jim frowns. He doesn’t know why he’s asking Oswald, but it isn’t really one or the other. Although, Jim does value his opinion—if anything, Oswald’s ability to manipulate people makes him something of an expert in judging their character. Either way, it was a mistake to ask. Jim’s offended him now, and probably ruined whatever fragile personal truce they’ve wordlessly negotiated.

He feels the regret like a stone in the pit of his stomach as he types out his response: _Sorry._

Oswald’s reply is more immediate this time.

_Why *are* you asking me? Why not ask Harvey? Isn’t he your best friend? Surely his gauge is more accurate than mine._

Jim sighs. Definitely offended him. He sends back: _I don’t know. Forget I asked_.

His phone chimes immediately with another incoming message.

_No._

Jim rubs his eyes. He’s tired, but that’s no excuse. He should turn his phone off, throw it in the nightstand and swallow a couple sleep aids…or a few extra. For a couple seconds, his finger hovers over the power button but, ultimately, he flips it back open. He can’t leave it like this—doesn’t want to be the reason they can’t…that Jim’ cant—

Fuck it.

_I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. It’s just…you know people. And sometimes I don’t recognize this person. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. I’m sorry I bothered you._

Jim doesn’t turn the phone off, but he does flip it to silent. He plugs it back in and leaves it on the nightstand before he grabs the empty pillow next to his own and hugs it against his chest. He squeezes his eyes shut, burning with the force of his own humiliation. There’s no one in this city that doesn’t feel alone, and Jim doesn’t need to burden any of them with his own dark thoughts. Oswald, least of all.

He just…

 _Wants_.

\--

There are six message notifications on his phone the next morning. Jim can’t bring himself to read them, doesn’t want to think about what he’d said. What he’d done. Doesn’t want to confront the evidence of his own pathetic loneliness. More than anything, he’s afraid to know how Oswald chose to reply. Does the Penguin pity him? Is he angry? Did he relish Jim’s despair?

Worse…Was he kind?

Jim’s sleep was restless, and his head is pounding by the time he shuts himself inside his office, pulling the blinds to block out the light. He plops down into his chair; and getting there early means Harvey isn’t around yet to judge him for quietly banging his head against his desk. Once, twice, three times—then he lets his forehead rest against the smooth wooden surface, eyes slipping shut as he contemplates his life choices.

It’s been a downward spiral since he came back to Gotham. Should have taken that job offer in Chicago.

Plaintively, he mutters, “Fuck.”

Suddenly, there’s a hand in his hair, and Jim jolts upright in his chair, gun pulled and cocked before he even registers the action. He blinks, gaping, as he recognizes Oswald staring back, wholly unimpressed. He regards Jim with an arched brow and a bland expression, reaching out and removing the gun from his numb fingers. Oz de-cocks the pistol, clicks its safety back on, before placing it on the desk.

The heavy thud of metal against aged cherry shocks him from his stupor. “Oswald,” he finally manages, glancing at the door, half-expecting his officers to rush in any minute. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“What am I doi—” Oswald starts impatiently, then cuts himself off. He leans back against the edge of Jim’s desk, sighing exasperatedly. “Is that a serious question?”

“It-I don’t—”

Oswald bends forward, cutting him off. “Did you even read my texts, Jim?”

Swallowing, Jim averts his eyes to the floor. He can feel his face heating, tongue heavy in his mouth and what the hell is wrong with him? There isn’t time to gather his wits before Oswald firmly, but gently, takes his chin between his thumb and forefinger. Slowly, he raises Jim’s gaze to his own. 

“James Gordon, you are a walking disaster zone,” he says. “You are duplicitous, hypocritical and every bit as cunning as myself, though you are loath to admit we have anything in common.”

Jim sucks in an unsteady breath, lump rising to clog his throat as he clenches his teeth to keep his mournful screams to himself. Once upon a time, he would meet Oswald’s accusations with steely defiance. Now, he focuses on the coat rack by the door, keeps his jaw tight. This hell that he’s in, it’s of his own making, and Oswald must know.

He did this. And, yeah, he’s trying to fix his mistakes but that’s what he’d been trying to do last time. Going to Falcone, and he’d only made a bad situation worse. The heaviness he carries every day, the loneliness he feels, every harsh word Penguin has for him—it’s nothing less than he deserves.

Oswald releases his grip on Jim’s chin, both hands coming to frame his face instead, thumbs swiping along his cheekbones. Jim closes his eyes, only just manages to keep himself from leaning into the touch the way he so desperately wants, gives himself up to Oswald’s judgement. Or, his punishment, whatever it may be; it’s long overdue.

“Your morals are antiquated,” Oswald continues, “and you must know that’s the truth. You’ve acted outside them often enough.”

Jim nods. “I know.”

“But shitty people don’t suffer this way,” Oswald says. “They don’t keep themselves alive solely for the sake of others. And that’s exactly what you’re doing here, isn’t, Jim?”

“I’m not suicidal,” he adamantly denies, shaking his head. Those thoughts…they’re creeping, fleeting, but he’d never actually—he wouldn’t.

“That’s not what I said,” Oswald replies, voice solemn. “You wouldn’t pull the trigger yourself.”

Jim feels his heartrate kick up a notch as Oswald leans in until their foreheads press together. His familiar scent envelops him, and Jim’s head swims a little because it’s so close to what he wants. Oswald must sense his distraction because he backs away slightly, tilting Jim’s head up to force his undivided attention.

“You’re hoping someone will come along and put you out of your misery,” Oswald says, then, words sticking sharply into something raw.

“That’s horse shit!” He pushes Oswald away, then rises to his feet to pace as he sneers. “I’m doing my job!”

“I ‘know people,’ Jim,” Oswald quotes, pushing away from the desk.

“You don’t know me!” Jim insists, shaking as he leans menacingly into Oswald’s space where he’s stood in the center of the office. He’s careful to keep his voice from raising lest he draw attention to the fact that Penguin has somehow infiltrated the station. “You don’t know the first thing about me.”

Oswald doesn’t back away; of course, he doesn’t. “I know you don’t take care of yourself. I was in your apartment, Jim—the place is a wasteland.”

“You broke into my, apartment,” Jim heatedly corrects. “Overstepping, as usual.”

The first spark of true anger flares; Oswald’s eyes are cold as ice, his words sharper than a dagger, as he says, “You got yourself kidnapped because you were too sick to outrun Scarface’s men. Got beaten half to death by Barb’s man-eaters because you were just too busy to call for back up—face it, Jim.” Oswald’s nostrils flare as his gaze flits over Jim’s form, as if peeling back the layers that house his soul. “You’re itching to die a hero, because that’s the only way you think you can redeem yourself.”

Jim seizes him by the shoulders, demons he didn’t realize he possessed drawn to the surface as he growls, “Isn’t it?”

The second the words are of his mouth, Oswald’s eyes widen, air drawn in with a shaky gasp. He snakes a hand up between them, presses it against Jim’s lips as if he can shove the confession back behind his teeth. It’s far too late for that now; the words are out there, floating in the air between them. Jim repays Oswald’s stricken concern by pushing him roughly away.

“Get out,” he demands, physically turning his back on the genuine worry he sees written in every line of Oswald’s face. He waits for the sound of the open and shut of the door, the signal that the one small source of relief he’s found in recent months has finally deserted him, but it never comes. Instead, he hears Oswald’s uneven gate approach from behind, his body heat hitting Jim’s back before two deceptively strong arms wrap around him.

Jim tenses, an unspoken threat that Oswald doesn’t heed. Instead, he says, “You wanted to know what I was going to ask you.”

“Doesn’t matter—”

“It does to me,” Oswald interjects. Something about his tone is hesitant, and it grabs Jim’s attention, keeps him from pulling away. “No one’s ever accepted…well, aside from my mother. That’s not…not the same though, is it? I wouldn’t really know—I don’t have any experience.”

For a moment, it seems like that’s all he’s going to say, but then he adds, softly spoken though it doesn’t mask the way his voice shakes. “No one’s ever touched me like that. Just…to be close. I like it. And I—I was going to ask if you’d—” Oswald huffs. “This is terribly humiliating. You don’t want—”

“Tell me,” Jim whispers, hands raising to tangle with Oswald’s, preventing him from releasing his hold. Louder he says, “Ask me.”

“I know it’s only because you’re lonely,” Oswald says. “I know that, but I just thought…it could be nice if—” he breaks off with an annoyed grunt. “Why is this always so difficult?”

“Always?” Jim questions. “Thought you didn’t have any experience.”

“I have plenty of experience with rejection,” Oswald returns, then tightens his arms around Jim a fraction before he draws in a measured breath. Finally, he says, “I was going to ask, the other night, if you would want to find time to…do this…when we aren’t under threat of immediate death.”

“You were…” Jim blinks, licks his lips. “Like a date?”

“What?” Oswald chokes. “No, I—Of course not—I mean, I wouldn’t mind it, er, that is—I mean to say, it’s just you seem to like…this, and I like it too, so…why not do it more often? If we both—if you wanted.”

Once he’s finished, he sort of slumps against Jim, as if his strings have been cut. Jim leans back into his embrace, sighing when Oz’s chin comes to rest on his shoulder. If Jim says yes, what does that make them in Oswald’s eyes? Cuddle buddies? It sounds ridiculous even in his own mind, but fuck this feels good right now. Jim eyes the clock on the wall, and it’s still so early. Shifts don’t change for another hour and Harvey is rarely, if ever, on time. The chances of being interrupted, this time of morning, are slim.

“Does right now count?” Jim asks.

Oswald sucks in a startled breath but recovers quickly enough. “Of course.”

“Good,” Jim says, leading them toward the couch along the interior wall of his office, reluctant to break their embrace but knowing it’s only for as long as it takes to make it even more satisfying. Oswald thinks to throw the lock on the door, just in case, before joining Jim on the sofa.

Jim lays himself down along the seat, throw pillow beneath his head, and Oswald looks pensive as he stands near the end of the chair where Jim’s feet are resting. Jim lifts a hand, reaching, and Oswald hesitates only for a moment before he takes it, allows Jim to help him get situated. When they’re finally settled, Oswald is laying over him, head on his chest, legs carefully intertwined, hands tucked between Jim’s back and the couch. Jim’s own arms are wrapped around Oswald, one at his waist while the other rubs the tension from between his shoulder blades.

“What I was trying to say earlier,” Oswald says after a while, “is that you have your flaws, Jim Gordon, but you’re still a good man. And it does matter, the things you do,” he adds. “The city wouldn’t be the same without you—and every redeemable quality Gotham has—you have them too.”

Jim struggles to form a response half as elegant, ends up saying, “I’m glad it has you.” He clears his throat, clarifies, “The city, I mean—and…I’m glad I do too. Sometimes, that is. I mean…you know what I mean.”

Oswald snorts, then chuckles. “I know what you mean.”

“And…thanks,” Jim says then. “For the food, that is. I may have actually shed a tear over the lasagna.”

Oswald shifts, reclaims one of his hands so he can lean up and smooth Jim’s bangs away from his forehead as he inspects Jim’s face. “You look better,” he decides, then amends, “Well, aside from the crippling depression.”

Jim rolls his eyes, catches the hand in his hair, brings it down to his chest as Oswald lays his head back over Jim’s heart. This is not how he expected his morning to go; definitely isn’t how he imagined their next encounter would shake out. Maybe that’s for the best, considering his state of mind as of late. It isn’t that he wants to die—there’s no death wish—but Oswald isn’t entirely wrong. Jim hasn’t been careful, and maybe there’s some part of him that does seek punishment.

“I’m trying,” Jim mutters, and it sounds like an oath.

Oswald squeezes his hand. “I can…” he sighs. “I can assign a few of my resources to the docks. Contrary to popular belief, there are some of us in the underworld who appreciate a little order.”

Jim hums—that would be helpful. But there must be a cost for Oswald’s assistance, there always is. “Are you offering…a favor?”

Oswald tenses for a moment, then shrugs. “Perhaps just one small condition.”

Jim braces himself. “What is it?”

“I’ve never been given a nickname that wasn’t meant to be patronizing.” He confesses, “I liked yours. You could…stand to use it more often. When we’re alone.”

Jim’s been trying not to repeat it, actually, despite Oswald’s assertion that he could use it. He’s beyond denying the fact that Oswald i—there are certain exceptions that Jim makes for him. Especially now they’re doing…whatever it is they’re doing. But it rolls off his own tongue too naturally, and he almost slipped up while speaking to Harvey and Bruce about new divides in criminal territories the other day. Still, it’s a small price to pay for such a favor.

“Not gonna ask for special treatment?” Jim asks, wary.

“I’d say that’s already at play here, wouldn’t you?”

“I thought…” Jim sighs. “This is personal, right? Favors are…business.”

“I have a personal interest in your well-being, Jim,” Oswald argues, and maybe Jim is an idiot for buying it, but there’s no sarcasm or any overexaggerated concern lacing his tone. None of the usual ambiguity to distort his true meaning.

He’s sincere. And it’s not that Jim doesn’t have people in his life that care about him, it just…somehow it means more coming from Oswald. Someone that doesn’t also rely on him to keep him safe, to navigate the perils they face while the city rebuilds. Someone who’s seen him at his lowest but is still willing to get this close.

Closer, maybe.

“What about you, Oz?” Jim asks—should have asked sooner, really. He’s been self-absorbed. “Are you okay?”

“I’ve learned to be…resilient over the years,” Oswald eventually replies. “This isn’t how I would have preferred things to have ended up last year,” he concedes, “but it can always be worse.”

They lay together for a while, minutes ticking by in the quiet of his office, until Jim’s tempted to do something really stupid. Like bury his nose in all that inky black hair, press his lips to the crown of Oswald’s head. Jim doesn’t want to make him uncomfortable, add a layer of complexity to something so undefined. Not to mention Oz’s claim that he doesn’t have any experience. Jim suspected it was limited but he thought, at the very least, he and Ed…They’d been close at one time—lived together for a while, even. Oswald had seemed keen, at any rate…

_‘… plenty of experience with rejection…’_

Yeah. Okay. Jim’s not…he can see it—or, well, it explains some things, at least. And he’s not one to fetishize virginity, but Oswald is uniquely expressive, and Jim can’t help but wonder what some of his reactions would be. If Jim’s hands wandered lower, if he bent forward to trace the delicate curve of Oz’s neck with his lips. Would he be the type to like a little teeth—a little bite—or is he all soft sweetness beneath those jagged edges? He thinks of the gentle way Oswald likes to comb his fingers through Jim’s hair, and figures he knows the answer.

Jim softly clears his throat, feels a bit of a flutter in his stomach, and he should point out the time, put some distance between them. He doesn’t want to let go, however; doesn’t care that it’s getting dangerously close to first shift at the station. He has no idea how Oz managed to sneak into his office in the first place, let alone how to get him back out again unseen. All he wants is more of this, more time, more touch. The thought has him tightening his hold while chin sort of nuzzles against Oz’s temple.

“I should be going,” Oswald mutters, and there’s a note of reluctance in his tone that echo Jim’s own desires to prolong this.

“In a minute,” Jim protests, running his hands up and down Oswald’s back, trying to memorize it for later.

Oz stretches against him, then scoots up so he can press their foreheads together. Jim breathes a chuckle through his nose, closing his eyes as he raises his hands to Oswald’s face to mimic his hold. It’s a cheeky little throwback to how Jim had ended their embrace last time.

When he reopens his eyes, he means to say something—maybe ‘thank you’ or ‘when’s next time’—but the second his gaze locks with Oswald’s, something between them shifts. He’s just…right there. And he’s looking at Jim like he’s never seen him before, eyes flitting over his face in some newfound fascination while his tongue peeks out to lick his lips. Jim sucks in a breath.

_Fuck._

He probably doesn’t have a clue what he’s broadcasting, but Jim is picking it up anyway and goddamned if he doesn’t want it. He’s already responding to the unspoken invitation, leaning in without conscious thought, until he can feel the humidity of Oswald’s breath against his lips. Jim’s own breaths are short, hands sliding into Oz’s hair as the distance between them slowly closes.

“Jim!” Harvey’s voice calls from the other side of the door, his fist rapping against the frame.

The shock of sound jars them both, but Oswald most of all. He reels back from Jim as if he’s been struck, all wide eyes and flailing arms. Jim catches him before he can go toppling onto the floor. Oz stills against him, but his eyes are wild, breath shallow in panic.

“Easy,” Jim whispers. “It’s alright.”

Oswald pulls himself together between one second and the next, nodding as he more carefully removes himself from Jim’s space. They should talk about it; about what they’d almost done just then—but Harvey bangs on the door again, and there isn’t time. Oz already has his jacket on, cane in hand with his back pressed along the wall where the door opens. Jim goes to flip the lock, fucks his own hair up and opens the door just wide enough for Harvey to see his discarded shoes by the couch.

“Jesus Christ. Did you sleep here?” Harvey asks by way of greeting, and there’s real concern in his eyes as he takes in Jim’s rumpled appearance. Has it always been there? “Get your fucking shoes on. We’re gettin’ coffee.”

He stalks off without waiting for a reply and Jim closes the door. Oswald is staring at the floor, cheeks flushed, when Jim approaches him after shoving his feet back into his loafers. Oz’s suit looks immaculate by compare, all carefully tailored lines and fine fabrics—he is every inch the Penguin. Except for how he holds himself so guarded, hunched together like he’s lost himself in the woods; hoping to pass through unseen.

Jim doesn’t say anything before pulling him into an embrace, just wraps his arms around Oz’s waist and holds on. Hesitant at first, Oswald’s hands come to rest over Jim’s biceps before sliding up and around his neck. His rigid spine relaxes as they breathe together, and Jim quietly sighs in relief. They’re okay.

“Text me,” he says, to which Oswald nods.

Jim gives him another squeeze before breaking his hold and stepping away. He slides his jacket on, and his hand is on the doorknob when Oswald finally speaks.

“Jim—” he starts, taking a step forward before catching himself. He straightens his posture primly, hands clinging to the handle of his cane. “Take care, Jim.”

The corner of Jim’s mouth lifts into a half-smile that feels roguish on his face, and he lets his eyes rove slowly down, then back up, Oswald’s frame. There’s something far too satisfying about the way the man blushes and fidgets under Jim’s appraisal, like a scandalized Victorian Duchess.

“Yeah,” Jim says casually, as if commenting on the weather. “See you around, Oz.”

\--

Later, Jim finally opens his phone to read Oz’s messages from the night before. He’s glad he waited, in the end, and when he’s done, he lays in bed and stares at the ceiling. Maybe…

Maybe it’s time to pull his head out of his ass and get his shit back together. Jim reopens his texts, scrolls over their conversation and pauses at the end of Oz’s frantic words.

_It matters, of course it does._

_Jim?_

_It matters to a lot of people._

_All those people you’ve helped._

_You matter to them. To the forces of good at the GCPD. To Harvey._

_To me. You matter to me, Jim._

Jim takes a deep breath, like he’s about to jump off the edge of a very narrow cliff. In a way, he supposes, he is—possibly, already has.

He presses send: _You matter to me, too. Oz._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, we're getting closer, aren't we? I bet you're wondering how the hell ch. 5 will possibly be platonic given Jim's emerging feelings in chapter 3 and that almost kiss in this one... *laughs maniacally* 
> 
> Feel free to discuss. LOL


	5. Common Ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just when he's decided to start giving a shit again, Jim manages to almost fulfill that newly retired death wish. 
> 
> Featuring the classic trope, "Please Don't Die, I Think I Love You," wherein one character is horribly wounded and the other is horribly concerned and regretting all that dithering they've been doing. Sometimes, all it takes to clear the air is feeling as though one has come close to losing it all. So sayeth the fan-fiction tropes, so it must be true!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight homophobic warning: Harvey uses some dirty tricks to get Jim to impart some info. He isn't' serious, but he does know how to get a reaction. The man's a damned good detective, when he feels inclined after all. ;)

Jim makes an effort, in the following weeks, to quit living as though the entire world has ended. Gotham is one city, in a world full of other places he could flee to if he so chose. And that’s the thing, right? Jim chose to stay, and as he recalls his words to Bruce on that rooftop—about looking up and finding the light—he figures it’s time to heed his own advice. Or, maybe, as Oswald had said, time for him to start counting his joys.

He starts by taking a good look at his apartment, which might have been lost to the initial carving of territory in the city. If not for Bruce’s quick thinking and application of resources, Jim could have easily began his crusade entirely homeless; his possessions scattered. He’s taken it for granted, as evidenced by the number of small but compiling repairs which need to be made throughout.

The water drains slowly in the bathroom, and Jim fixes that first—with a dusty bottle of Drano and a snake. The dust is a monster all on its own and after digging around in the cupboards for the shit to fix the sinks, sneezing his head off, Jim decides it, too, has got to go. As he’s dusting, he takes the time to repair the broken window catches, so he can let fresh air into the apartment. Convenient, really, because he goes after the filter on his window A/C unit next, which hasn’t been cleaned in about three years and makes the whole place smell like sweaty feet.

He moves on to the broken slides on the silverware drawer in the kitchen, fixes it so the face of the drawer isn’t lopsided anymore and he can actually open and close the damned thing. There are a few worn out hinges on some of the cabinets too, ones that he bought replacements for at one point but never actually swapped out. He does that when he’s finished with the drawers and, once those few items are checked off the list, Jim gives the entire apartment a thorough cleaning.

He finally clears those cobwebs out of the far corner of the shower, scrubs the soap scum out of the tub and tosses all of the linens and throw pillows into the wash. He clears the detritus—used Kleenex, wadded up paper, wrappers—strewn about the surfaces of his home and wipes it all down with vinegar. He even drags out some drapes he bought from a street vendor last year, and tosses the ratty ones currently hanging in the living room.

All of it is small stuff, but setting it to rights in his free time makes a vast difference in Jim’s mood at the end of a long work day. He’s pretty sure it hasn’t smelled or looked this nice since it was built in the late 1800s. And coming home feels good again; restores some sense of normality. Maybe Jim can’t fix the pile of shit beyond his front door with a box of tools and elbow grease, but this? He can definitely control this; he can decide how he chooses to live in his personal space. Feeling good about his accomplishments, Jim pulls out his phone and snaps a picture of the apartment from the doorway.

He hasn’t bumped to Oz since that morning at the office, but they exchange texts fairly regularly. Jim sends him pictures of his projects and Oswald will tease him, tell Jim to fix his wardrobe next or that he missed a spot. He sends this latest picture off to him as well, with an accompanying text.

_Still look like a wasteland?_

His phone pings with a reply shortly after, and Jim grins as he reads Oswald’s response: _It’s no[Woolworth](https://www.cityrealty.com/nyc/tribeca/the-woolworth-tower-residences-2-park-place/33123), but it’ll do. _

Jim licks his lips, taps out a quick response and hits send before he can talk himself out of it.

_Looks better in person._

There’s no immediate response, and after a few minutes of dumbly staring at his phone, Jim sighs and tosses it onto the coffee table. What the hell is he doing? It’s easy enough, when they’re face to face, to ignore all the reasons cuddling up to the Penguin, quite literally, is a bad idea. He’d agree with Oswald’s assertion that it’s all down to loneliness, but there are plenty of good, unattached people on Jim’s side of the struggle. One or two have even mentioned blowing off a little steam a few times, but Jim’s not taken anyone up on the offer.

It isn’t that he hasn’t been down that road before; he’s familiar with the drive. It’s just that there isn’t anything waiting for him at the end of the line. Brief encounters offer such a temporary relief, just enough to ease the body into sleep, but there’s no one waiting on the other side of waking. Just two people awkwardly stumbling back out into the world after a fleeting escape. It’s a pitstop and that’s not what he wants to be—not what he needs, either. Jim’s looking for a shared adventure, where the partnership is the destination.

Home can be anywhere, if it’s a person.

And maybe that’s old-fashioned, but Jim likes relationships—even now, after everything. There’s this connection, built on trust and shared experiences—mutual struggles—that writes this personal history that no one else knows aside from those who shared it. It’s a counterpoint to everything else that happens around the two of you, and no matter how it ends, you become part of that person’s story, and they irrevocably become part of yours.

Maybe that’s why it’s been so easy. He and Oswald already have a history, containing elements to which no one else is privy. They know certain things about one another—certain weaknesses—tiny little observations and acknowledgments that tease one another with glimpses at what lays beneath. Jim doesn’t need to bare his soul for Oswald to see him, he doubts there’s ever been a time when his intentions were fully obscured to the man. Though, Jim has managed to surprise him a time or two, up until it came time to look him in the eye.

There’s something they both have, and it recognizes itself, lends to that intuition. They don’t know each other all that well personally—Jim couldn’t name Oswald’s favorite color—but they are intimately familiar all the same.

His phone pings. Jim doesn’t make a dive for it, but he does snatch it up off the coffee table with embarrassing immediacy.

_Is that an invitation?_

Jim feels his face heat, tries to imagine Oz’s tone as he reads the question. Is it a lilting tease or something more like cautious hope? Jim taps his thumb against the open bevel of his cell, considering. Was it an invitation—does Oswald want it to be one? Only one way to find out.

_City’s quiet…for now. I could clear you with the door brigade. If you wanted._

“Shit.” Jim rubs his forehead, pushes himself to his feet and paces a couple steps before heading to the kitchen for a drink. Did he really just invite the Penguin to his apartment? “Fuck.”

He’s keyed up all of a sudden, adrenaline making his hands shake as he pours a finger of whisky into a tumbler. Jim’s just offered to put Oswald Cobblepot on his clearance list—those logs go right to Alfred. That ought to be what has him unsettled—it isn’t.

Oh, if only.

He forces himself to take a deep breath. Maybe Oswald will decline, and Jim won’t have to think about what to do with him if he shows up. Though, he knows well enough what he’d like to do. Jim tips the glass back, swallows the contents like it’s a cure-all for bad decisions. The phone buzzes in his off hand; he flips it open.

_I think that would be unwise._

Jim sets his jaw, tells himself it’s a relief. Texting is one thing, but actively planning time together? Oz is right—it isn’t smart and maybe he’d been the one to suggest it, but Jim can’t blame him for changing his mind; one of them needed to come to their senses.

Calmly, Jim rinses his glass before setting it in the drainer. He pads past the living room and into his bedroom. It smells nice in here now, like lemon Pinesol, and it soothes his tangled emotions somewhat. Jim plops onto his back across the bed with a huff. The phone buzzes again.

_I’m very sorry, Jim._

Jim sighs as he taps out his reply. _It’s okay. I get it._

That’s a lie. Jim doesn’t get it. He wishes he did, so he could fix it. He is still looking at his screen when a new message pops up.

_I don’t think you do._

Jim grits his teeth, starts a response then discards it. He punches Oz’s number instead. He surprises Jim by answering.

“Explain it to me,” Jim says, in leu of a greeting.

“I want to,” Oswald assures, voice hushed.

“Can’t slip away?” Jim discerns.

“It would take some…maneuvering, but I could,” Oswald replies after a brief silence.

“Did I make you uncomfortable?” Jim asks, then, thinking back to last time.

“Is taking the blame your default setting?” Oswald asks incredulously, then says, “Don’t answer that.”

“Did I?” Jim pushes.

Oswald huffs. “In a way. It wasn’t unpleasant, I—”

“I see,” Jim says, when Oz doesn’t seem to want to say anything further. He’s nervous; just as worried as Jim is about what exactly they’d be doing if he showed up on his doorstep.

“You see?” Oz parrots. “And what exactly is it that you see?”

“You’re nervous,” Jim tells him. “You don’t need to be. You can come over and just…lay next to me.” He takes a breath, confesses, “Kinda miss you.”

He hears Oz sniff, and he furrows his brow. “Oz? Are you—”

“Do you miss me?” Oswald interjects. And his voice is quiet, but Jim can hear how thick it is. “Or do you just miss having someone, Jim? When this is over—when Gotham is back on its feet—what then?”

“You’ve already got your moves planned that far ahead?” Jim asks. “What about you—let’s say you come over. Let’s say…you come over every day for the next—what—almost three years from now? Order is restored, and people come back in, what am I to you then? An Obstacle? Something you plan to throw aside the second your old methods are available to you again?”

“Of course not!” Oswald vehemently denies. “I care about you—”

“Is it so hard to believe that I care about you too?” Jim asks quietly. “That I like you. That I think about you.”

There’s that sniff again. “Yes.” Oswald answers plainly. “No one else ever has. And you’re…I’m not. That is to say—I’m not who most people would think of, Jim, let’s be perfectly honest. I’m not pretty, and I’m not nice. I have thirty-five years of virginity to prove it, so don’t bother patronizing me.”

Jim huffs, then he outright chuckles.

“Are you—” He can actually hear Oswald becoming indignant. “Are you laughing at me?”

“A little bit, sweetheart, it’s nothing personal,” Jim replies.

“What did you just—”

“You’re an intimidating son of a bitch, Oz,” Jim interrupts. “You are very pretty—I’ve always noticed—and you’re smart as hell but, fuck, you’re mean.” Jim laughs. “Most people are probably afraid they’ll lose a hand if they try it.”

“Aren’t you?” Oswald asks, testily.

“I’m not most people,” Jim replies, sobering. “And I know where your soft places are. I know how sweet you can be.”

Oz swallows audibly over the receiver. “What do you want from me, Jim?”

“Whatever you’ll give me,” he answers honestly.

“What if I don’t know what that is?”

The question makes him smile. “Figure it out. I’ll be here.”

***

“The Hell are you smiling about?” Harvey asks incredulously. To be fair, they’re stuffed in Harvey’s car, been watching the same doors and windows for three straight hours, and it’s cold as balls outside despite having the heater on full blast.

Jim catches the reflection of his own stupid grin in the side mirror, and quickly checks himself. “Aren’t you the one always telling me to turn my frown upside down?” 

“Yeah, and you never do, so I’m thinking you’ve got something on your mind you ain’t sharing with the rest of the class.” Harvey takes a swig of his coffee. “Come on, fess up. I’m bored as hell.”

“Fess up?” Jim parrots. “To what? I’m feeling better, that’s all.”

Harvey snorts. “Come on, who is she?”

“There’s no she,” Jim adamantly replies. Technically, not a lie.

“A ‘he,’ then?”

Fuck.

“Ah-ha!” Harvey titters. “Okay, now you gotta tell me. Who’s the new boy toy?”

“C’mon, Harv.” Jim grimaces. “Don’t be that dick.”

“Oh, ho!” Harvey slaps the steering wheel, then counts off on his fingers. “So you are seeing someone, and that someone is a man. Let’s see, that narrows it down…” he mutters, rubbing his chin as he considers.

Jim groans. “Jesus Christ.”

“Well, He is risen,” Harvey cheekily replies.

“Give it a rest—fuck!” Jim reaches out instinctively, pushes Harvey from the path of danger just as the front windshield punches inward and cracks, bullet tearing through the glass to lodge itself somewhere in the seats.

“That’s our guy!” Harvey shouts, as a second shot goes tearing through the upholstery.

“Think he’s happy to see us?” Jim calls back wryly, sliding out onto the pavement to crouch behind the door as he tries to get a bead on their shooter. But the third shot never comes, and Jim swears as he slaps his hand against the door panel. 

“He made us,” Harvey sighs, holstering his gun and rounding the car to get a better look at the damage to the windshield. “Knew we shoulda gone with the Caddy. Way more subtle.”

Jim snorts, side pinching as he stands. Must have pulled something in his rush to find cover. “Probably saw your hat, got spooked—”

“This hat is a classic.”

“You bought it last week,” Jim points out, wrinkling his nose at its horrid maroon tint. “It’s hideous.”

“I’ll have you know—shit!” Harvey stalks toward Jim like he’s about to deck him in the face. Over a hat, though? “Son of a bitch!”

“What?” Jim asks, backing up a step and flinching at the sudden jarring pain that flares up his ribs. “Ahck! Shit, what the…”

He puts a hand against his aching ribs, but his eyes see the red soaking through his own shirt before he registers the slick warmth between his fingers. He’s been numb, riding an adrenaline high but now that he sees it…he feels it. Getting shot isn’t like what people think; it just burns—inside and out.

“Easy, Jim,” Harvey says, as he comes up beside him. He takes Jim’s arm and pulls it over his shoulders. “Let’s get you back in the car. I can get you to the hospital faster than they make the roundtrip.”

“Ah! Fuck!” Jim groans, before clenching his jaw. Getting into the car is harder than getting out, and Jim’s feeling queasy by the time he’s settled in. Harvey pulls off his scarf as he gets behind the wheel, wads it up and presses it into Jim’s side.

“Just hold on, buddy,” Harvey tells him, kicking the car into gear. “You’re gonna be fine—just—fuck. Just hold on.”

The neighborhood they’re in flies by in a blur as Jim presses his clammy forehead to the passenger window. It’s chilly, icy air whistling in through the holes in the windshield as Harvey speeds down the streets, sirens blaring, and Jim feels his teeth chatter.

It strikes him suddenly, as his own blood dries on his fingers. He’s been living in a dark place this past year, quietly hating himself for the paths he chose—the compromises he made. He’s run after men with guns without a thought, quietly daring fate to dole whatever justice it sees fit. There’s a bitter part of him that wished for it, even, and Oswald’s words echo in his mind. That he’d been waiting, hoping to die a hero to atone for his many sins.

But...

His eyes flutter with the effort it takes to keep them open, to keep fighting. Because he still believes every word he said to Bruce. Despite it all, there’s light in those dark places. He’s found mercy there, kindness in a shadowed corner where only coldness should lurk. Where a rough edge meets hard stone, and it seems impossible that any warmth would come of it, but it did…it does. Tiny little sparks. And Jim’s own light is dimmed and flickering but it’s still there, and he knows. He knows it with a clarity he hasn’t felt in a good, long while.

“I don’ wan’a die.”

***

It probably isn’t a good thing that waking up in a hospital is so familiar, that Jim doesn’t have to open his eyes to know that’s exactly where he is. The sterile smell, the metronome beep of an IV pump and the bleached white fluorescence that makes the back of his eyelids look red. It’s all there, and so the only real questions are how long, and what the hell is he on?

His fingers are tingly.

Or. Wait.

Jim opens his eyes slowly, as far as he’s able to avoid blinding himself with the overhead light. He barely manages to keep himself from reacting to the sight that greets him. Oz is sitting at his bedside, guest chair pulled up so that he’s got his elbows propped on the mattress. He has Jim’s left hand encased in both of his own, expression solemn as he places a gentle kiss to the back of his fingers. His breath blows warm over Jim’s skin, where his nose is pressed softly there.  

There’s a clatter from outside, and Oz’s spine goes rigid, head whipping toward the door. He places Jim’s hand back down against the sheets, his grip incredibly careful despite the rest of him being so tightly alert. It’s obvious he’s found some way to sneak into Jim’s room, afraid he’ll be discovered any minute yet lingering all the same. It fills him with fondness, his throat constricting with just how much.

Oz quietly pushes his chair back from the bed, traces his fingers down the back of Jim’s hand; a farewell gesture. He straightens his suit, and sucks in a breath that exhales as a weary sigh. Jim can see him slowly donning his armor, mentally preparing himself to go do…whatever it is he does that keeps the cogs of his machinations turning.

“Hey,” Jim says, throat hoarse with disuse. He coughs as Oz bodily flinches, caught unaware. “Don’t go.”

His blue eyes dart up to meet Jim’s gaze, mouth open as a series of emotions play over his face. It takes all but a minute, before he jolts into action, crossing the small room to pour Jim a cup of water. Silently, he helps Jim take a couple sips, replacing the cup when he’s had enough to drink. Then, he turns back to Jim, lips pressed into a thin line as his eyes sweep over the hospital bed, appraising the various tubes and wires aiding Jim’s recovery.

After being shot. Again.

Jim sighs. “It’s not what it looks like.”

“No?” Oz questions, folding his arms around his middle as if to hug himself. “What is it, then?”

“It wasn’t even—we should have been safe. It was just surveillance. He made us, got in a lucky shot,” Jim explains tiredly, rubbing his forehead. He blows out a breath. “It’s not a safe job, Oz, but I don’t want…” He huffs. “It’s funny, actually.”

Oz furrows his brow. “Excuse me?”

“For a while, I think you’d have been right to suspect,” Jim confesses. “I keep telling everyone—telling Bruce—that there’s hope but I hadn’t been keeping any for myself—not for a while, not until…And then, in the car while I was…” bleeding out, he doesn’t say. Instead, he gestures at his injured side, covered by the thin cotton blanket, keeps his eyes on his thumb and forefinger where they fidget with the seam of its scratchy fabric.

“The windshield got broken, and before I passed out, the wind was blowing in, and it made me think about how much I like Summer.” Jim smiles, as he pictures the city in sunlight. “Those trees in the park, the pink ones with white bark. The noise of people and cars, and bikes on the street—constant, alive.” Jim sniffs, feels his throat grow tight as his vision blurs. “I swear, I could smell the hotdog cart that’s always parked right next to the newsstand and all I could think was…” Finally, he meets Oswald’s gaze across the room. “I hope I don’t miss it.”

 Oz sniffs, wiping at his eyes, nodding like he understands but he’s still so far away. He holds himself awkwardly, looks at Jim with such forlorn uncertainty. Oswald is completely unnerved in this moment, his layers cracked and peeling, and Jim can truly see him as he hasn’t been able to in years. He tracks Oz as he approaches the side of the bed, timid and shy, suddenly unsure of himself.

“I regret that I didn’t come over,” Oz says, eyes carefully downcast, when he reaches Jim’s side, “when you asked the other night. There was a time, I used to wish that you would…”

“I wasn’t very likeable back then,” Jim says, trying to ease the old hurt that lingers in Oswald’s voice.

“I’ve liked every version of you, Jim,” Oz says, lips quirking into a tiny rueful smile. “Even the grumpy ones.”

He takes up Jim’s hand, turns it over, then uses his free hand to curl Jim’s fingers in toward his palm. It’s an odd gesture, though it strikes him as familiar, and then…he remembers it. The press of fine paper, an invitation issued in vain.

Jim swallows thickly, slips his fingers beneath the curve of Oswald’s own, says, “We’re both here now.”

Gingerly, he scoots himself closer to the opposite edge, where his IV and cable maze are located. “Pretty sure we’ve shared smaller spaces.”

“Jim,” Oz quietly reproaches, eyes flitting toward the door. “Someone’ll see.”

“Let ‘em.” Jim shrugs. He’s well aware it would shock a few people’s systems, but Oz has been working with the GCPD to keep the ferries in and out of the piers safe from criminal interference. It’s one of the reasons he’s had more down time lately. They’re not going to arrest him if they find him here, and Jim could care less what anyone thinks. “Come on.”

“I don’t want to upset anything,” Oz continues to demur, gesturing at Jim’s everything, as he shakes his head.

“We’ll be careful,” Jim assures, drags his thumb back and forth over Oz’s knuckles. “Please?”

Oswald folds like a deck of cards at that—warily removes his jacket, vest and tie followed by his shoes, places it all neatly onto the guest chair. It’s the world’s most prim and proper strip tease, but Jim’s eyes follow the lines of his body nonetheless. Oz’s jet-black slacks hug his waist perfectly, held securely by silky, black suspenders that make his royal purple dress shirt pop vividly against the pale skin of his throat. He’s always been a hell of a dresser—it’s impossible not to notice him which Jim is certain is the point—but it’s easier now, letting himself appreciate it.

“It’s impolite to stare,” Oz chastises when he catches Jim looking, and he probably means it to be teasing, but the stilted delivery reveals his unease.

“Sorry,” Jim replies, raising his eyes as he reaches out his hand.

For so many different reasons, and not always with the best of intent, they’ve reached out to one another over the years like this. It’s never just what meets the eye with Oswald, always holds some heavier significance beyond a mere conventional gesture. It’s heavier still, when Oswald takes his hand this time, lets himself be vulnerable to this.

He ends up curled up on his side, Jim’s free arm wrapped behind his shoulders while his IV hand cradles the one Oz has resting over his heart. His temple is pressed against Jim’s collar, hair tickling right beneath his chin. It makes it easy for Jim to angle down and press a kiss somewhere into the mess of it. Slowly, Oswald lifts his head and his eyes are so wide, shocked by such a small display, that Jim feels compelled to do it again.

He kisses Oswald’s forehead this time, let’s his lips linger there for countless moments; feels the way Oz shudders at the contact. Jim backs away eventually, but only far enough to rest his jaw there instead. Oz snuggles closer, nose pressing against his neck, exhales contentedly when Jim buries fingers in his hair to rub at his scalp.

He closes his eyes, familiar endorphins interacting with whatever else is pumping along the IV line. “Thanks for coming.”

“I was worried,” Oswald confesses, barely above a whisper.

“I know,” Jim replies, bringing the hand on his chest to his lips. He places a consolatory kiss against the back of it. “I’m sorry.”

“I never—” Oz cuts himself off, shakes his head. “You should get some rest.”

“Don’t do that,” Jim gently reproaches.

His tone is far too innocent—too cheery—when he replies, “Do what?”

 “Hold back,” Jim insists, “because you think…I don’t know, that I don’t want to hear it. Or, that I can’t handle what you have to say. I don’t need to be spared. Just say it—whatever it is.”

Oswald sucks in a breath, continues to hesitate. Finally, he says, “It isn’t you I’m trying to spare, not really. I realize that makes me seem very selfish and, perhaps, I am, but…”

“Oswald.” Jim pushes. “Why were you worried—it wasn’t just about me dying.”  

Oz’s breath is shallow as he remains stubbornly silent, as if one more word will seal some unholy fate. Jim wants to understand his reluctance, the parts of it that aren’t rooted in the obvious. Oz is comfortable enough with physical closeness, but he shies away from each new level of intimacy they stumble into. Afraid to go too deep, show too much at once.

“That’s alright,” Jim concedes. People that live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones, he supposes. “You don’t have to—”

“But I want to!” Oswald suddenly declares, leaning up so that he hovers over Jim, eyes wild. “What I want from you…” He raises a hand to Jim’s face, thumb gently tracing the arch beneath his eye. “They’re things only you can give me. But I’ve wanted it before—I’ve felt like this once before—and it _hurt_.

“And I promised myself, never again,” Oz tells him, voice thick with grief. Those threatening tears slip free from the wells in Oswald’s eyes to fall softly against Jim’s cheek. Oz sniffs, wipes his face before he continues sardonically, “Which should have been easy, frankly.”

“Oz,” Jim interjects, disapproving the inherent self-flagellation of that comment.

“I went decades, Jim!” Oswald insists. “And the one time I fostered any hope that someone could—that they—” he shakes his head. “It was unrequited. Which shouldn’t have come as a surprise…but it did.”

“Look at me,” Jim softly demands. Oz makes to avert his eyes, but Jim raises his IV hand to his jaw, keeping him still lest he risk causing injury. “This isn’t unrequited. Those things you want—I’m not holding them for ransom.”

Oswald’s expression cracks. “But it’ll never work, Jim.”

Jim huffs. “Quit trying to set up a board here, Oz. It’s not that complicated.”

“You’re a cop,” Oswald whispers emphatically, echoing the very thoughts Jim himself has struggled with the past few months as they’ve grown closer. Funny how ending up here casts certain things into stark perspective.

“Yeah, well,” Jim shrugs, lowering his voice as he reminds, “we also killed a man together.”

Oswald’s eyes go wide, mouth snapping shut.

“And I’m not about to join you in running the underworld—we’ll always have our share of differences—but we aren’t _so different_ , Oswald, that it isn’t worth trying,” Jim argues. He drags his fingers down Oswald’s face, his neck and arm, all the way back down to his hand. “Don’t you want to see where it goes?”

Oz’s eyes, filled with sadness minutes ago, stare back at Jim with something like wonder. His smile is bashful as he nods, before he makes to resume his earlier position, only to stop short. Hesitantly, he shifts slightly up along the bed. His eyes flit briefly over Jim’s face, assessing, before he carefully leans forward. Slowly, Oswald closes the distance between them until his lips find Jim’s with a chaste kiss.

It doesn’t last long, and Oswald doesn’t meet his eyes as he lays back down, though Jim can see the flushed tips of his ears. He lets it go for a few minutes, calmly trailing soothing fingers up and down along what he can reach of Oz’s spine. When it seems he’s relaxed, Jim clears his throat.

“We should do that again sometime,” he tells him. “Repeatedly.”

Oswald snorts. “Perhaps I will,” he replies, then hums considering before adding, “after your doctor clears you for more strenuous activity.”

Jim feels himself react to that comment a half second before his heart monitor beeps tellingly. “Been thinking about that a lot, have you?”

“Go to sleep, Jim,” Oswald replies, unperturbed.

Jim is tired, but he knows the nurses will be making rounds soon—it’s a minor miracle they haven’t been disturbed already—and he fights the lull of exhaustion and medication. Oz will probably be gone next time he wakes up, and despite having reached some sort of common ground, there’s no telling when he’ll see him again. Resistance is futile, of course, and soon enough, Jim knows nothing at all.

***

When he wakes, sunlight filtering in through the blinds, the other side of Jim’s bed is empty. On the table tray, however, is a large vase filled with daisies. A throat clears from the doorway and Jim looks up to see Harvey stride into his room. He stops at the foot of the bed, holds up a card pinched between his fore and middle fingers.

“To new beginnings,” Harvey reads. “That new boyfriend of yours sure knows how to make a guy feel special, huh?”

Jim clears his throat, coughs awkwardly, but can’t keep a stupid grin from stretching over his face as he turns his head back toward the window.

“Yeah,” Jim says, catching the faintest scent of sandalwood and roses lingering on his pillow. “He sure does.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little side note about Jim’s will to live. I know the inclination often in fic for conquering depression is to tie that to the romantic interest and while I do make Oz a part of that in Jim’s thoughts, I hope it came across that Jim is finally seeing the big picture. He has his own reasons for for digging himself out and yes, while Oz is a catalyst to that, I really hope it’s apparent that he isn’t the only reason. 
> 
> Oh well, let me know ur thoughts in the comments if u have any about it you’d like to share! <3


	6. The One Time (sort of) It Wasn't...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And here we are, finally, at the end. Here, we address the most tried and true fanfiction trope there is: Angst, with a Happy Ending. 
> 
> Mostly, it's all just happy ending. Please enjoy these 10K words of comfort (Jim's healing from that gunshot wound), fluff and smut. <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, it got out of hand. As always, I hope you've all enjoyed the ride as much as I have enjoyed having you along for it. <3 <3

Jim spends six days in the hospital, which is lucky according to the nurses. The round was a small caliber, encased in brass with no fragmenting. It lodged itself between his ilium and colon, but somehow managed to avoid so much as chipping his hip or scratching his organs and major arteries. Best case scenario or not, it feels like he’s been hit with a bus and it doesn’t matter how many times he’s been pumped full of lead, it never gets any easier.

Oz visits whenever he can slip away, always bearing gifts it seems though nothing conspicuous or lavish. Instead, it’s a collection of tiny, thoughtful gestures which reveal the attentive nature of the man beneath. There’s a pair of cashmere socks currently warming Jim’s feet beneath the thin hospital bedding.

On the table tray sits the latest two editions of the Daily Planet, complete with facetious little hints scrawled alongside the crossword puzzles. Sitting beside those is a paperback copy of _My Ántonia_ , which Jim has been struggling to put down since Oz dropped it off the night before last. He’s got one of the daises pressed between the pages—something his mother used to do—forced to leave off this morning when Harvey arrived. Jim eyes it as he chews, wonders how Oswald figured out his preference for old Westerns.

It’s a little humbling to be the object of so much attention. Then again, maybe that’s just how Oswald operates. He wouldn’t be half as good at manipulating people if he weren’t observant. Of course, that only makes Jim wonder if he’s currently being played; if the shy, inexperienced act isn’t just that. An act. The thought makes his blood run cold, stomach twist in rebellion, as he ponders the past year, and all the events that led them here—To Jim laying in a hospital surrounded by the evidence of so much affection.

He thinks back to that first night—to that abandoned apartment complex hiding from Barb and Tabitha—and Oz’s clenched fists, coiled so tightly in case he may have need to strike. Then, there’s that nervous, chaste press of lips a few days ago and the color in Oswald’s skin as he hid from Jim’s gaze. He’s not tried to kiss Jim since, keeps himself at a respectable distance though his eyes wander. He’s caught Oz staring at his hands, his lips, eyes glancing and darting away again as he speaks. And it’s so confusing because he’s completely unchanged from the outside—sharp suits, sharper tongue—but he sits across from Jim and he’s…

God, he’s all wide-eyed innocence.

Oswald.

Innocent.

And he’s so fucking scared, he practically vibrates with it lately. It’s as if acknowledging their attraction, and speaking plainly about—God, are they seriously…is he dating the Penguin? Can it even be called dating? Jim isn’t sure he even knows how to apply that idea to the context of their relationship, and that’s what it really is, isn’t it? They’re building a relationship, and maybe that’s what has Oz looking so petrified.

“Fuck.” Jim clenches his jaw, Oswald’s latest gift squishing pleasantly between the roof his mouth and his tongue.   

Harvey grunts, bends his paper down so he can look at Jim overtop it. “What’s a matter?” He eyes the chocolate. “Get a nasty one…is it coffee?” He wrinkles his nose. “Who just eats a coffee bean? You can cover it in all the chocolate in the world, it’s still disgusting—if I wanna eat beans, I’ll buy proper fucking beans!”

Jim swallows the ball of chocolate, chuckles despite himself. “Nah. It’s just…” His face heats. How the hell is he supposed to talk to Harvey about Oswald? He can feel his balls shrinking at the thought.

Harvey clicks his tongue, hums knowingly. “It’s like that, huh?”

Jim carefully averts his eyes, picks up a different chocolate from the box. He sniffs. “What do you mean?”

“You like him,” his friend replies shrewdly. “You like him a lot.”

Jim doesn’t know what to say to that, confirming the claim would feel too much like a confession. He grunts noncommittally instead, takes a sip of water.

Harvey sighs. “You know I don’t mind, right? That you like banging other guys—”

Jim nearly spits water all over the blankets, choking as Harvey pushes them into all new, uncomfortable territory. “Fuck’s sake, Harv!”

“What’s the big deal?” Harvey pushes, abandoning his paper to pat Jim ineffectually on the back. “We’re all adults here, besides—” he steals one of Jim’s candies, talking as he chews, “some asshole buys me a box of chocolates and some fancy socks, I might just be tempted myself.” He licks his fingers. “This is the good shit, too.”

“Jesus.” Jim sighs. “Yeah, alright. I like him, okay?”

“Yeah?” Harvey cajoles, ducking down to meet Jim’s eyes. “You gonna tell me who it is?”

“Not yet,” Jim replies apologetically. “It’s new, and he’s…” Jim trails off, trying to think of a way to describe Oswald’s sweetness without sounding like a complete sap. He draws in a sharp breath, blows it out, and offers, “He’s shy.”

“Shy?” Harvey parrots incredulously, squints. He says, “We don’t know any shy people. I thought you said I knew the guy.”

Jim rolls his eyes. “I never said you knew him—quit trying to trip me up. And he’s not always shy—he’s just, about this, y’know? He doesn’t have a lot of experience with…guys.”

Harvey’s eyebrows raise. “And you do?”

“More than him.”

“Huh.” Harvey tuts, retaking his seat. “So, what’s with the face, then? He got a weird underbite or something?”

“You mean the guy that runs the elevator in my building? No, Harv, it’s not him.” Jim closes the chocolates, puts them back on the table.

Harvey stares at him obstinately, without blinking, and Jim finds himself answering with no small amount of obfuscation. “It’s not about appearance—he’s…I like how he looks.”

“I’d hope so,” Harvey remarks, but he isn’t smirking which is a testament to his genuine interest.

“It wasn’t supposed to be—I don’t know, romantic—and I…” Jim shrugs, grasps for the words. “…we, sort of fell into this thing. And I thought I knew the guy, that he was predictable, but there’s more to him than…that. And we work, when we’re alone. And it’s easy. I didn’t think it could be easy—it shouldn’t be easy—but we both…”

Harvey holds up his hands. “Okay, back up. You’re telling me you’re freaking out because it’s too easy?” He snorts, then, adding, “Fuck, you got issues.”

“No—yes. It—” Jim rolls his eyes. “I just don’t know if it’s easy—or we’re compatible—because of our situation,” he explains, “or despite it, you know? We weren’t exactly friends. I don’t know that we would have ever come to it…had the city not gone to hell in a handbasket.”  

“But it did,” Harvey says, and he’s quiet for a moment before leaning forward to put his elbows on his knees. “You ever heard of the Quantum Multiverse theory?”

Jim blinks. “What.”

His friend chuckles. “It’s some obscure science shit.”

“O—kay.”

“It’s interesting,” Harvey defends. “Anyway—basically, it’s this theory, right?—that for every decision or action that has a potential for multiple outcomes, every outcome occurs.

“There’s the outcome you experience—in your reality—and then there’s the other realities that explore the alternate outcomes that you don’t perceive, but the universe observes and then chooses the one that occurs most often1. So, maybe, in one of those realities, the world didn’t go to shit, but this guy was still there, and you still reached the same outcome.”

Jim furrows his brow. “What…like fate?”

“No, dumbass,” Harvey replies irritably. “I’m talking math and probability, okay? Fuckin…science, Jim!”

“So…” Jim grins mischievously, because if Harvey had the first clue as to what he was condoning here, he’d have a long list of less-obscure justifications for Jim to run as far from Oswald as humanly possible. “You’re sayin’ I should stop worrying and learn to the love the bomb2?”

“Shit sucks,” Harvey reasons, shrugs. “Why overthink it?”

“I don’t know.” Jim frowns. “Guess I’ve just had some bad experiences since coming home. And he’s…not exactly, I don’t know...”

“Yeah, well…” Harvey looks him up and down, “All things considered, you seem like you’re doing better lately. Gotta admit, you had me worried there for a while.”

“Sorry,” Jim tells him earnestly. “I didn’t mean to worry anyone.”

“Don’t apologize,” Harv replies with a huff. “Been hell on all of us.”

Jim hums his agreement. Picks up the discarded box of chocolates and holds it out between them. Harvey chuckles and accepts the unspoken offer, flips up the top and plucks out a couple of pecan clusters. He hands one over to Jim, and they indulge in companionable silence. When Harvey gets up to leave, a few minutes after visiting hours have ended, he lingers by Jim’s table, fingers gently fiddling with one of the daisies.

“Must have been hard to get something like this into the city,” Harvey comments. “Guy must have some serious connections.”

Time slows as blood rushes in his ears, caught off guard by the sudden keen observation. Simultaneously, their eyes dart to the vitals monitor when his heart rate spikes suddenly from seventy-two to one-ten3.

Jim stays cautiously quiet, eyes fixed on the daisies, cursing himself a thousand times over for not considering the effort it might take to get fresh flowers. Especially ones clearly prepared by a talented florist, in a city where there aren’t any florists currently, not counting Poison Ivy, who isn’t exactly in the business of ‘Get Well Soon’ arrangements.

“Huh.” Harvey sniffs, but doesn’t comment. Instead, he strides to the door with a casual wave of his hand.

Later, Jim can’t sleep and it’s apparent that Oswald isn’t going to be making an appearance. He fishes his phone from the top drawer of the bedside table and taps out a text.

_Going home tomorrow._

The reply comes a few minutes later, and Jim can picture the reproachful frown that might accompany the words if Oswald were there in person.

_Shouldn’t you be resting, then?_

_Can’t sleep._ He sends. _I think Harvey knows._

 _Does that concern you?_ Oswald replies, follows up with, _I distinctly recall you claiming not to care if people saw us together._

Jim swallows, because that’s true but he’d been loopy and wanting. In truth, he doesn’t know how he feels about anyone knowing, let alone Harvey. Though, not for any of the obvious reasons any sane person might devise. Jim feels a certain inexplicable security in keeping their developing relationship between them. The idea of sharing it feels like issuing a dare to the universe to destroy it.

 _Sort of._ Jim sends. Then, to clarify, adds, _I don’t want to hear what he might have to say._

_When does anyone, ever, want to hear what Harvey Bullock has to say?_

Jim chuckles at that, feeling some of his residual anxiety uncoil. They go back and forth for a few minutes, until Oswald agrees to stop by once Jim’s settled back at home. He manages to drift off eventually, and the next morning brings with it his promised freedom.

***

His first day home is frustrating, in that Jim wants desperately to be recovered yet remains unable to complete the simplest of tasks without thoroughly thinking it through or needing assistance. Harvey had offered to hang around and lend a hand, but Jim knows the GCPD is stretched thin enough, and someone has to keep the National Guard in line; He needs Harvey’s boots on the ground.

“It’s not the first time,” Jim says, which is true, and exactly what he’d said last time.

Harvey grimaces, clearly remembering the mess Sophia had made of him, and sighs. “Alright, but if you need anything—I mean it, Jim—call me.”

“I’ll be fine,” he reassures, comfortably ensconced in his own bed and he must look better than he did in the hospital because his friend nods and finally takes his leave.

Of course, Jim’s altruism bites him in the ass later that night when he accidentally drops his bottle of pain meds and it goes rolling under the couch, contents spilling in all directions. He’s a got a pillow pressed up against his abdomen where he was shot—gentle support for his wounds4—and he can’t just get down on all fours unless he wants to go right back to the hospital.

“Goddamnit!” Jim shouts at the walls, dying to punch a fist right through one. 

It’s then that someone knocks on the door, and Jim’s rubs his free hand over his face in tired frustration. The building is under intense security, and he knows it’s safe, but he’s vulnerable like this and itching for his gun. He’s too tired to make the trek into his room to retrieve it, however, so he warily crosses the room, clutching his pillow to his side. Pain’s blooming up along his ribs and down his leg—it’s the reason he’d gotten out of bed in the first place, his pills left in the living room. He doesn’t care if it’s Zsasz on the other side of that door, so long as they’ve got two hands and can reach his fucking pills. He ambles over to slide the chain and swings it open.

“Oswald,” he greets, pleasantly surprised and more than a little relieved. Jim hasn’t heard from him since last night, figured he was too busy.

“Hello, Jim.” Oz smiles nervously, shifting his weight slightly and it’s then he notices the duffel. Oswald follows his gaze and flushes, shrugging as he ducks his head to stare at the floor, clearly nervous. Always uncertain of his welcome, constantly aware of the potential for rejection and half-expecting it from the gate.

Oz’s tone is falsely casual, voice quiet as he explains, “I just thought—the first few days might be rough—in case you wanted me to stay. Obviously, you’re more than capable of taking care—”

“I’m not,” Jim blurts, startling Oswald from his jittery ramble. “Capable, I mean.” Jim winces at his own awkward fumbling, then reaches up to scratch at the back of his neck, hissing when the motion tugs uncomfortably at his wound.

Oswald’s demeanor shifts from fumbling to alarmed, dropping his duffel so he can gently catch Jim by the elbows as he sways on his feet. He helps Jim over to the couch, glancing down to take in the scattered pills when he accidentally crushes one beneath his polished Oxford.  

“Dropped the bottle,” Jim explains, as he leans back into the couch, closing his eyes and breathing through the discomfort.

He’s only been on his feet for twenty minutes since waking up to take his meds, and already he’s exhausted. He reopens his eyes when he’s caught his breath to see Oswald knelt on the floor, and that can’t be good for his knee, using his cane to fish the bottle out from under the sofa. He makes quick work of gathering the pills back inside before capping it and setting it down on the coffee table.

“I apologize for the late hour. There was a minor incident at the docks.” Oswald smiles up at him, genuinely empathetic, as he asks, “Did you take one yet?”

Jim shakes his head, sighing heavily. He feels ten kinds of useless as he watches Oz slowly climb to his feet. He tracks his path through the living room and into the kitchen. He reemerges with a glass of ice water, sits it down to read the face of Jim’s prescription bottle, then fishes out the dose and hands it over, followed by the water.

“You should put your things in the bedroom,” Jim tells him, when he’s finally medicated, “and then tuck me in. I’m done.”

“Are you sure you want…?” Oz hesitates, flustered. “I don’t mean to impose—”

“Oz,” Jim interjects, then inclines his head toward the door, where his duffel still sits discarded in the open doorway. Oswald ducks his head, tips of his ears red, timid all over again as he moves to claim it and bolt the door. 

He matches Jim’s pace as they make the short trek to the bedroom, hands Jim clean clothes on his way into the bathroom. When he reemerges, the bed’s been remade, its blankets turned down to reveal fresh sheets, and there’s a new glass of water and a small sandwich on the bedside table. Jim has no idea how Oswald managed to do all of it so quickly—and there was a time he wouldn’t have expected the man to be capable of caring at all—but he stands at the foot of Jim’s bed in his ridiculous silk pajamas looking so lost and out of place that Jim aches for him.

He ignores his own discomfort, crosses the room until they’re toe to toe, Oz’s eyes fixed firmly on the floor. Despite his timidity, he comes easily when Jim reaches for him; gently hides his face against Jim’s neck, places a careful arm around his uninjured side. He’s shaking, and so Jim takes care to raise his good arm this time; slides a soothing palm up along Oz’s spine all the way to base of his head where he runs fingers over his scalp.

“Thank you for staying,” he says, brushing lips against Oswald’s temple.

“I—” Oswald starts, then abruptly cuts himself off. He wilts a bit, clearly disappointed in himself for whatever reason, says, “You’re welcome.”

It’s…

Fuck. It’s sweet.

He’s so fucking sweet. Sneaking into Jim’s room at the hospital, leaving him gifts, buying him chocolate, coming here to take care of him. With his goddamned sandwiches and fancy-ass pajamas. He might be a little loopy from the Vicodin, but he’s lucid enough to know what he wants. Been thinking about it for days, and now Oz is here and they’re finally alone, and he can’t do half the things he wants to while he’s all banged up, but this? Jim slides his hand around to cup Oswald’s jaw, guides his face out of hiding until that nervous gaze is fixed on Jim’s face.

“Can I kiss you?” Jim asks, wanting to give Oz a moment to prepare for it, or deny it if he isn’t ready. “Would that be alright?”

Those wide, blue eyes spare a glance at Jim’s lips before snapping back up, color blooming over his cheeks as he nods. Jim doesn’t waste any time, closes the distance between them and kisses Oswald the way he’s been wanting. If this is his first honest kiss, Jim wants to make it good. He still remembers his own first kiss, the way it’d made him dizzy, senses dull to everything but the play of lips against his own, and that’s what it should be. That’s what he wants to give here—that heady sense of being overwhelmed, unmoored by the weight of someone else’s desire.

So, Jim takes the time to be coaxing, to ease Oswald into something deeper with gentle, repeating kisses—the uninterrupted play of lips, a subtle prodding tongue. Oz gasps at the first nudge, mouth opening just enough that Jim can lick inside, taste and be tasted. He opens to Jim with clumsy hesitance, frozen everywhere else as if frightened one wrong move might bring about its end. Jim abates this fear by gripping him firmly behind the head and sealing their mouths together. He kisses Oswald the way a starving man might lick crumbs from a floor—hungry and shameless. The moan that breaks free of Oswald’s chest is heartfelt, and heartbreaking. 

He doesn’t relax, hand twisted into the back of Jim’s shirt as he clings without burdening Jim with his weight. His breaths come quickly, the panic of his thoughts a tangible presence. It’s too much, and that’s alright. Jim’s in no condition to take things further, so he slowly eases them back apart. Trails kisses along Oswald’s cheek, against his ear and temple.

“Come on.” Jim takes a step back and tugs Oz’s hand. “I need to lay down.”

It’s easier then. Oswald helps Jim get comfortable, takes the empty plate to the kitchen when Jim finishes his sandwich, then crawls into bed and carefully lays himself along Jim’s side and this, at least, is familiar to them both.

“You sure you can afford to help me out like this?” Jim asks, the thought striking him suddenly that surely Oz must be neglecting a dozen other things to free up his time this way. “It’s not…overburdening you?”

“You could never be a burden, Jim,” Oswald tells him plainly, voice laden with the evidence of his own exhaustion as he snuffles, half asleep already, against Jim’s shoulder.

Oh.

***

Oswald can’t stay every night, but he’s there often enough that Jim carefully plans visits from others. The last thing he wants is for Oswald to feel any more uncomfortable than he already clearly does. The man continues to be tightly wound, and it isn’t that he’s short or impatient—he tends to Jim with exuberance, patiently changes his bandages, helps him in and out of the shower, often there to assist before Jim thinks to ask. It’s more that he’s…quiet. Contained. Doesn’t speak unless Jim initiates, and attempting to puzzle it out is quietly driving him insane.

The man isn’t typically one to refrain, has no shortage of clever words to pull from the air to make conversation or, more appropriately, demands. Jim huffs just thinking about his many impromptu speeches, the way he used to burst into the GCPD and showboat. Oz isn’t shy. Not like this, and no matter how long Jim spends observing him in the hours he spends at the apartment during the day, he can’t piece it all together.

If he didn’t know any better—if Oswald didn’t curl up against him every night like a heat-starved cat—Jim would think the guy was having second thoughts. It doesn’t help that the only time Oz seems to relax is when he’s on his way out of the apartment, forced to leave for hours at a time to handle what Jim assumes are threats to his territory or some other pressing shady business. As if facing the dangers out there is somehow more appealing than spending too much time in Jim’s presence.

Granted, they’ve never spent any prolonged amount of time together that wasn’t harried by extenuating circumstances. It probably isn’t fair to assume that Oswald is uncomfortable around him like this, but Jim doesn’t know what else it could be. There’s a careful distance that Oz maintains between them during the day, only dissipating when they’re pressed side by side in the dark. It’s…

Disappointing.

Jim thought they might spend this downtime getting to know one another better, learning how they fit together. He tries not to let his upset bleed over as he slowly heals, reasons that perhaps Oz is uncomfortable sharing space in general, but then he remembers that he used to live with Nygma, and didn’t he share an apartment with his mother at one time? He’s still thinking about it when Oswald comes back that night, clearly unsettled.

Jim asks him about it after dinner, taking his pills at the table, while Oz dries their dishes. “Everything alright?”  

“Nothing to worry about,” he replies cheerily, but Jim’s noticed him stiffen at the question. Recognizes a platitude when its staring him in the face, and it’s not that he’s trying to snoop. He just…What happened to letting the guards down when they’re alone? Are they really incapable of communicating unless someone’s holding a gun to their heads?

It’s been a little over a week, and yeah, they’ve kissed a couple times, usually right before bed, but that’s not intimacy. Not when one of them is holding back, because Jim doesn’t know how Oz is feeling; he doesn’t respond in kind when Jim shares his own secrets. It’s like watching a heavy stone door slowly close between them, and it isn’t that Jim is dying to know what happened today—their days are typically spent in the trenches, there’s always something going down—it’s the principle of the thing.

And Jim’s had enough. He snaps.  

“Look, if you’ve changed your mind, Oswald, for fuck’s sake, just say so,” Jim demands, causing Oz to freeze where he’s standing at the sink, and suddenly the silence between them is all the more deafening. Like all the air has been sucked out of the room.

If Jim thought Oz was tense a moment ago, it’s nothing compared to the way his shoulders hunch up in response. Jim can see his neck coloring all the way from across the kitchen. Slowly, Oz reaches over and turns off the tap, and Jim’s expecting him to bite back, throw out some haughty retort—any of the things characteristic of the Oswald he’s come to know. Instead, his face is drawn when he turns around, eyes wide and haunted.

Jim pushes to his feet, ready to cross the room and apologize, anything to wipe that awful look from his face. He’s clearly misjudged the situation, missed some integral piece of the puzzle. As made clear by the anxious way Oswald wrings the towel in his hands before he tosses it at the wall.

“I don’t know what the hell I’m doing!” Oswald blurts, like how he imagines a bottle of anxiety might pop a cork, before he deflates somewhat to add, “But I’m here, I—” his hands gesture wildly, vibrant with the intensity of his frustration. It isn’t rainbows and sunshine, but damn it, it’s better than polite restraint.  

“I want to be here,” Oz tells him fitfully, “and I want—” he cuts off abruptly, drawing in a sharp breath before pressing his lips into a tight frown.

“What?” Jim asks, approaching slowly to cage him in against the counter. He rests his hands over Oz’s hips, presses his temple against the side his face. “Talk to me. Tell me what you want.”

“I want…” his trails off with a tremble before he whispers, like it’s some dirty secret, “I want to touch you…More.”

“Is that all?” Jim asks, quietly. Sighs when Oz shakes his head, presses an encouraging kiss just above his ear. “What else?”

Oswald swallows thickly, forehead dropping down onto Jim’s shoulder as if in surrender. “I want you to like me.”

It sounds like something a child would say; words to reflect Oswald’s naivety. Except that the register of his voice, the heavy implication in his tone—there’s nothing innocent about it. It’s a hollow, painful truth that falls from his lips with such hopelessness.

“I don’t want to wear out my welcome,” Oswald adds when Jim takes too long to respond, all forced joviality as he deprecates himself. “I know I can be irritating.” Fake laugh. “It’s one of my many character flaws.”

Wordlessly, Jim slides his right hand up Oswald’s back, pulls him close. Hesitant, arms raising awkwardly, Oz returns the embrace. He holds Jim loosely, ever considerate of his injury, with a tentative hand braced at the back of his neck while the other clings gently to his shoulder.

There are a number of things Jim could cite as character flaws, but aside from the times Oswald is purposefully goading, irritating doesn’t even register. Jim’s own list is quite long, he wonders who in this city could claim otherwise. Bruce, maybe?

Alternatively, he could point out all the things about Oz he admires—resilience, intelligence, wit, resourcefulness, to consider a few—but it somehow seems inauthentic to focus only on his finer qualities. Like Jim sees him through some rose-tinted lenses, which implies he doesn’t also acknowledge the things about him they both know he can’t condone. And this thing they’ve managed to unearth between them, it relies on acceptance. Good, bad…ugly.

Beautiful.

“It’s okay to just…be yourself,” Jim says, ultimately, “I like you just fine that way.”

Oswald leans back from their embrace, just enough that he can search Jim’s face for any signs of untruth, and it makes him wonder. Jim’s been through some bad breakups, to put it mildly, but he’s never considered not trying again. What the hell happened to Oz, to make him so scared to get it wrong—to misstep—that he’s been walking on eggshells around Jim for the last week just to avoid being irritating, of all things?

Jim doesn’t know what to say to reassure him, figures actions speak louder than words. He leans in, slowly enough to alert Oz to his intention, and kisses him. It’s different from the others; there’s no reserve or gentle persuasion. It’s a challenge as much as a declaration, one Oswald answers with a quick inhalation of air and a desperate groan. His usual courteous demeanor—the tight restraint—dissipates.

He’s greedy with how badly he wants; for how long he’s gone without. And here, Oswald’s inexperience is truly evident in the unpracticed way he attempts to meet Jim’s tongue, all want and no finesse. But it burns, being the object of that much pent up desire, and Jim growls his satisfaction. And, for a moment, Oz blooms with confidence, fingers sliding into Jim’s hair as he surges forward. He’s overeager, bumps Jim’s teeth with his own in his bid to move closer, curling away in embarrassment immediately after. Jim huffs, catches his bottom lip between his teeth to halt his retreat. He soothes the bite with gentle suction and a swipe of his tongue, deciding to show a bit of mercy by trailing kisses along his jaw rather than overwhelm him any further.

Oswald’s breaths are shallow, fast-moving things, hands in Jim’s hair as he exposes his neck in eager submission. Jim hums, takes his time seeking out the places that make Oz shudder—behind the ear, the lobe itself, the sensitive hollow of his throat. He lavishes them all with equal attention, heating up by the second with every little cutoff moan, and quiet plea that fights its way past Oswald’s ragged breaths.

Emboldened by his enthusiastic responses, Jim slides the hand he’s got at Oswald’s hip around his back to grip the fabric of his shirt and yank it up, slides his hand up beneath it, groans at the feel of all that soft, warm skin. He takes his time mapping Oswald’s flank, fingers tracking slowly along his ribs, around to his shoulder blade then back toward his chest. He finds the tiny peak of a nipple with his thumb, flicks his nail against it as he sucks a mark into Oz’s neck.

Oswald cries out, stills against the counter, and Jim pulls off immediately. Or, he tries to, at least. The fingers twisted in his hair hold him in place, until bit by bit they relax, and Oswald’s posture slumps.

“Oz?” Jim asks, finally able to see the tense line of his mouth, the deep furrow of his brow where his eyes are screwed shut. Jim blinks, looks lower. “Oh.”

Oz’s lips tremble, and Jim kisses his forehead. “Easy,” he whispers. “S’alright, sweetheart. Just breathe.”

Oswald listens. Takes a breath, then another, until his shoulders finally relax.

“That’s it,” Jim soothes. Then, “Enjoy the afterglow.”

There’s a snort, then: “You’re lucky you’ve already been shot.”

***

 It comes easier after that night, sharing space. At least, Oswald seems more certain of his welcome. He leaves less during the day, confesses he can handle most of his operations from his cellphone, assures Jim his most trusted associate is more than capable of managing his operations at City Hall while he’s away. Though, he never mentions exactly who that associate is, and Jim’s certain he wouldn’t like the answer.

“You know you’re going to have to give that up,” Jim says, eyeing him blandly.

Oswald blinks innocently, mouth tilted wickedly at the corners. “Once my own property is returned to me,” he replies, referencing the Van Dahl Manor which is currently outside his territory, “and my assets are no longer frozen, the city can have it. It’s drafty.”

Jim snorts, shakes his head and lets it go with a resigned sigh. He can’t fault Oswald for setting up camp and surviving. Besides, he’s always been tangentially attached to their operations, benefitting from offering his assistance where possible. He’ll never be altruistic, but often times he’s their best ally when the water gets murky.

At least he’s honest about it, doesn’t bother pretending he isn’t breaking any number of unspecified laws when he’s not at Jim’s apartment, helping him recover. In fact, he vociferously bemoans the blatant moves of his opponents, the incompetency of henchmen that don’t know the meaning of subtlety and, perhaps most surprising, his absolute disappointment with Ed and his continued anti-restoration campaign.

And it isn’t just the communication barrier that’s fallen, though Oswald likes to talk, now he allows himself to do so. He offers commentary on the news, recites bits of history relevant to current affairs and ruthlessly debates their differences of opinions. As ruthless as he can be anyway, cradling Jim’s head in his lap as they watch the news. Because now the he knows he’s allowed to touch, Oz can’t seem to resist.

Jim was aware, going in, that Oswald isn’t accustomed to being touched. His being a virgin has nothing to do with it, there are countless different ways to be physically intimate outside of sex. And while Jim suspected he’d not had very many of those kinds of encounters—his tension during the times they’d been forced into close quarters the biggest tell of all—it’s a bit of a revelation to realize that he’s never even had that.

Thirty-five years. No wonder he’d come in his pants with just a few kisses and a fleeting caress. No wonder he’d been so wound up, uncertain where to put his hands, where the boundaries are. He doesn’t know what’s appropriate, doesn’t have the first clue how to initiate, to ask for what he wants without words, and so he trips over them when he tries to give voice to those desires. It was easy for him to cuddle up with Jim at night because those parameters were already established, familiar. It’s as endearing as it is heart wrenching, because…

Oswald soaks up physical affection like a dry sponge tossed into water, and it pours back out of him just the same. Beneath all that untouchable veneer, hides a man given to affection, who can’t force the lid back over the can of worms Jim accidentally opened. And he tries, at first. Stares at Jim’s hands like he’s being taunted by them, attempting to predict when they might reach out, when it might be acceptable to act on that unfamiliar need.

So, Jim starts to make it a point to touch him, often, and at random—sneaks up behind him when he’s brushing his teeth in the morning, holds him in place by the hips and leans around to kiss his slackened jaw. He crowds into Oswald’s space while they watch the news, leans his head against his shoulder and plays with his fingers. When they’re eating in the kitchen, Jim will hook his feet around Oswald’s bad ankle and massage it with his toes under the table.

By the time Jim’s healed enough that he can stop walking around with a pillow pressed to his side, Oswald has taken to kissing him chastely in the morning when he greets Jim with coffee and medication—the number of which are steadily decreasing now that he’s no longer at risk of infection. If Oz leaves the apartment and returns to find Jim lounging on the couch, he’ll pull his feet onto his lap and rub them.

“I used to do this for Fish,” he muses one evening, rubbing soothing circles into the ball of Jim’s foot, stopping suddenly when he realizes his error.

Jim tenses, their eyes meeting as the memory of that night flits between them. His recollection is hazy, but he can distinctly recall the resistance of flesh against the knife he buried in her side, the blood warm against his fingers. He feels nauseous suddenly.

“I’m sorry,” Oz says. “I didn’t think…”

“How can you stand to be near me?” Jim asks. “You loved her, didn’t you? And I—”

“In a way,” Oswald interjects, before Jim can say it. “I came to respect her. She was…a sort of family. Near the end.”

“You told me I was a monster,” Jim recalls hollowly. “Sometimes, I wonder—”

“No.” Oswald shakes his head, holds out his hand and waits patiently for Jim to accept it before he continues. “I only wanted to hurt you, the way it hurt me in the moment. I knew—I’ve always known—it wasn’t your fault. You were out of your mind with a virus, Jim.”

Something must show on his face, some hint of disbelief, because Oz gestures to him and asks, “What sort of monster mourns a monster he slayed against his will?”

He shakes his head. “She wasn’t—”

“She was.” Oswald asserts, then adds, “Like me. Though, I feel I’ve outpaced her in some ways. Sometimes, I wonder which implication she’d find more insulting.”

There’s nothing Jim can say to that—nothing honest, at any rate. He can’t deny that Oz is a monster, can’t condone the choices he makes to further his own ends. And it’s one thing to grant acceptance, but Jim can’t even absolve his own sins, let alone anyone else’s. But Oswald doesn’t wait for him to reply, offers Jim a quiet little smile as he raises Jim’s hand to his lips; presses a kiss against the back of it.

***

Something shifts between them after that, like they’ve leapt one final hurdle, and suddenly it’s like breathing. Oswald finally finds his footing in their relationship—and that’s what it is; Jim can’t pretend it’s anything less—presses Jim down into the mattress at night, explores his body with touches that are as curious as they are possessive. His kisses are tempered, if still somewhat inexperienced, comfortable now in the knowledge that permission won’t be revoked; he can take his time.

And he does. Drives Jim crazy with shy little kisses to his neck, beneath his ear, works Jim up with his seeming quest to learn every inch of his skin. It’s a prison of his own making, unwilling to push Oz before he’s ready, unable to keep himself from thinking about it. Especially when they’re hot and heavy one minute, and Oz is pulling away the next, having drank his fill. Unprepared to go further.

Still, Jim takes his deep breaths, satisfied at least that they’re making progress. And not just in the physical sense. Before, they would stick to safe topics of conversation, careful to avoid tripping any landmines. Now, it’s easy to talk about their past with something like wistfulness and gallows humor. Easier to acknowledge their adversarial roles in one another’s lives and, in turn, the quiet truths that lay in between. Oswald confides that he got off on Jim pushing him around, and Jim shares that he was relieved when Oz showed up alive, looking for Ed.

“You missed me?” Oz infers, simpering, as he places a hand over his heart.

“Don’t overthink it,” Jim replies blandly.

Oswald snorts, giggling as he tosses popcorn in Jim’s face and jeers, “Boo!”

Jim kicks the bowl out of his hands with a well-aimed foot, pins him up against the back of the sofa as he straddles his lap. His initial plan was to pester, maybe jab his fingers into Oswald’s ticklish ribs, but Jim gazes down at him, and suddenly that’s not the intent at all. Their eyes meet, recognition passes between them, and suddenly Jim is kissing him; open-mouthed and hungry.

Oz moans as he opens to Jim’s intrusion, hands desperate and sure where they grip his ass and squeeze encouragingly. His eyes roll up into the back of his head, and he grinds down, quick to ignite with how he’s been so innocently teased the past weeks. It’s not enough though, and soon he’s aching for more—anything. He tears his mouth away from Oswald’s lips, reaches down to grip the hem of his own t-shirt and yanks it over his head. He reaches for Oz’s next, wrestles it up from between his back and the couch before it finally comes free.

Oz stares up at him, mesmerized, as Jim runs hands along his pale skin, brushes his knuckles through the sparse trail of hair that leads below the waist of his silk lounge pants. Jim looks his fill, then scoots forward to press them together until their skin is flush.

“Oh!” Oswald sighs, hands climbing Jim’s back, fingers pressing into his flesh as he writhes beneath him.

“Yeah.” Jim grabs a handful of his hair, guides Oz’s head to the side so he can suck a bruise into his neck. He trails kisses back up along the path from his shoulder to his ear. The line of Oswald’s cock is pressed against him, the shape of it discernible through the thin silk of his lounge pants.

“Oh! Oh, my God!” Oswald cries, when Jim slides a hand into his pants and pulls him free. He bucks up into Jim’s fist, pure instinct. “I—it’s too much. Jim!”

“That’s it.” Jim licks his lips. “Just like that. Let me see you, baby.”

Oz’s head drops against the back of the couch, his spine straightening as he mindlessly fucks up into Jim’s hand and comes. His words are indiscernible as Jim works him through it, but it’s arousing all the same, knowing he’s somehow robbed Oswald of his ability to form coherent sentences. He reaches into his own pants when Oz goes limp against the cushions to catch his breath, leans forward to steal a kiss as he seeks his own pleasure. Suddenly, there’s a hand on his wrist.

“May I?” Oswald asks, licking his lips as he stares down at Jim’s cock. “I want to…make you come.”

Jim kisses him again, unhands himself and leans back so Oz has room to work. A tentative hand wraps around his shaft, squeezes—a little too hard—and Jim grimaces. Immediately, the grip is adjusted, but it’s a little too loose now and Jim sighs. He doesn’t mean to be impatient, but fuck, Oz has been playing cat and mouse with Jim’s blue balls for weeks now.

“Sorry,” Oswald says, backing off, but Jim catches him up.

“It’s alright. I’m just…” Jim slumps, bluntly explains, “I wanna sit in your lap and ride your cock, but I’m physically incapable right now, and it’s annoying.”

Oswald flushes, ducks his head. “I don’t know if I’d last long enough to—”

“Trust me,” Jim interjects, “I wouldn’t either.”

He reaches out and takes Oswald’s hand, wraps it back around his aching cock, guides him through the movement. Oz is uncertain at first, but grows more confident with every stroke, every sound of enjoyment that works its way past Jim’s lips. It’s good, Oswald’s grip dry, but loose, and Jim could come from this alone with how worked up he’s been, but he’s so fucking turned on. His body is hot all over, senses focused on touch and he wants.

God, he wants. Jim hangs his head forward, watching Oswald’s hand as it moves along his cock. His eyes are drawn to the mess on Oswald’s stomach, his thick, flaccid cock still so tempting. If Jim were up to it—just another week, according to his doctors—he’d work Oz up again and fuck himself stupid on it. Once it’s in his mind, however, he can’t think of anything else. He leans forward onto his knees, pulls his pants as far down his thighs as their position will allow, and swipes his fingers through Oz’s come.

“Jim, what—” Oswald cuts off with a gasp as Jim reaches back and pushes two fingers into himself.

He can hear his seventh-grade health teacher pitching a fit, but Oz is a virgin and Jim’s had access to his medical files. Unless he’s suddenly developed a heroin addiction or a penchant for tattoos, Jim figures he’s relatively safe. He’ll freak out about it later. Right now, all he wants is this—big blue eyes staring up at him like he’s seen Christ, hand working his cock while Jim tries—ineffectually—to find his own prostate. Angle’s all wrong, goddamnit.

“Fuck!” Jim whines, practically growling in frustration.

There’s a hand creeping behind his balls suddenly and Jim’s eyes snap open. “Oz?” he pleads. “Please, please, fuck—baby, I need it.”

Oswald nods, half eager but so out of his depth as he asks, “What…what do you need?”

In answer, Jim greedily snatches his hand, sucks Oz’s fore and middle fingers into his mouth as he continues to fuck into the hand around his cock. Oswald’s mouth has dropped opened, color blooming along his shoulders and neck as Jim shamelessly takes what he needs. When he’s got his fingers nice and wet, Jim slowly draws them out and guides them back behind his sack as Oz eyes him like a deer in headlights.

“S’okay,” Jim soothes him, scooting closer so that Oz has plenty of leverage. “You’re not gonna hurt me.”

“I don’t know how—” Oz swallows, licks his lips. “Tell me what to do.”

Jim smiles fondly, says, “You don’t have to do anything, if you’re not comfortable with it.”

To this, Oz rolls his eyes and huffs. “I realize that I’m a thirty-five-year-old virgin—”

“Not anymore,” Jim interrupts.

“Yes, well,” Oswald sniffs, tugs Jim’s cock just this side of too tight so that he shudders at the sensation. “I’m not a fucking child, James. Do you honestly think I would ever do anything I didn’t want to? Does that sound even remotely like me?” 

Jim furrows his brow, concedes, “Point.”

Oz presses the pads of his fingertips against Jim’s rim a moment later, gently testing the give. He’s got them almost crossed so that they form a blunt point at Jim’s hole, and he must have been paying extremely close attention to have picked up that technique so quickly. Jim sucks in a breath, braces himself with both hands on Oswald’s shoulders as he slowly bears down.

“Hold still,” he tells him; then, “Just like that. Just…fuck, yeah.” He opens to Oz easily, and Christ, he’s got long-ass fingers. Jim throws his head back, enjoys riding them while Oswald watches, slack-jawed, as Jim takes his pleasure. It’s instinctive, quickly finding a rhythm between the circle of Oz’s fist and the firm pressure of his fingers, and soon enough Jim finds himself on the brink.

“I’m so close.” He pants, forehead falling against Oz’s shoulder, the distance between them having grown shorter at some point, so that the air he breathes is humid and everything smells like sex. “You wanna make me come, baby?”

Oz nods against him. “Yeah—yes.”

“Mustn’t forget our manners, huh?” Jim chuckles, then grinds down so close to where he needs it. “Fuck!”

“Jim!” Oswald huffs impatiently. “How…tell me how to make you…”

“Pull ‘em out just a little,” Jim quietly instructs, “and curl your fingers.” Jim gasps when he complies, shakily continues, “Feel for a…a—fuck! Yup. That’s it! Oh, Jesus-fucking-shit—”

Oz rubs up against it gently at first, working Jim’s cock in tandem, and who knew he was so coordinated? He’s frighteningly adept, reads Jim’s body like a blind man fluent in Braille. It’s intense, perfect, exactly what he needs, and Jim opens his eyes—can’t remember closing them to begin with—to find Oswald focused on his face, gaze so fucking reverent.   

“Let me see you,” Oz begs, his tone nothing like he’s ever heard it—soft, and hopeful. “Please, Jim? Holy shit.”

He pushes down with just the right amount of force, and Jim’s next breath is stalls in his chest. His spine goes rigid, head snapping back and up as his orgasm crashes over him with gut-wrenching force. He can hear himself—the embarrassing whimpering pitch, the volume—but he can’t stop. Begs Oswald to never fucking stop, until he finally slumps forward and it’s all too much.

“Can’t—can’t—too much,” he haggardly pleads against Oz’s neck.

Unintentionally, too inexperienced to know better, Oz yanks his fingers free in an attempt to swiftly ease Jim’s discomfort, ratcheting it up a notch instead. It causes his entire body to jolt against the rough friction, his cock giving a final, futile twitch that sets his teeth on edge, but fuck—it’s a hell of a problem to have, isn’t it? And maybe it’s the painfully slow escalation over the past few weeks, the persistent blue balls left in the wake of Oz’s innocent exploration, but Jim hasn’t come like that in ages.

When he finally comes down from the post-orgasm high, Oswald is staring down at his chest with a contrite little line between his eyebrows. He swipes a fingertip through a stripe of come that landed just over his nipple, raises it to his lips and Jim’s hand shoots out to stop him. Oz blinks, startled.

“It’s…er, that’s...” Jim sighs.

“Sorry,” Oz apologizes, embarrassed. “I was just—”

“Seriously—that is absolutely okay,” he emphatically insists. “It’s just…I should get tested again before…you do that.”

“Oh.” Oswald wipes his finger on his sweats, and suddenly Jim is the one feeling uncomfortable.

It’s not like he goes around having unprotected sex with anonymous people, but he has had a lot of sex. Some of it unprotected, with long-term partners. That’s not what he’s worried about. It’s more that there’s such a disparity between their levels of experience—one that can’t be ignored in moments like these—and it’s not Oz’s lack so much as Jim’s abundance. There’s been times, over the years, that he’s definitely been…

Cheap.

“Jim?” Oswald softly inquires, regaining his attention. Once he has it, he nervously clears his throat. “That was…” Oz takes a measured breath. “That is to say…you were—are—” he drops his gaze, embarrassed as he finally says, “lovely.”

Jim feels his own face heat, stomach fluttering, and it isn’t just the word, flowery as it is; It’s that Oswald says it with such whole-hearted sincerity. Like Jim didn’t just totally disregard his comfort zone, and slut it up. Fuck. It’s an awkward thing for Oz to say. Ridiculous.  

Achingly romantic.

No one’s ever lavished that kind of language onto him. He’s more accustomed to handing out the praise than receiving it, telling his lover how gorgeous they are, how talented or intelligent. And it’s not that he’s never been complimented, it just tends to be more along the lines of lust-fueled descriptions of his cock, and how it ‘fucks so good’ and ‘God, you’re so hot’ but not—Jim’s not ‘lovely.’

There’s a hand on his hip suddenly, just below his fresh, new scar. It shakes Jim from his musing. Oswald is wiping them clean with a discarded t-shirt, a slight tremor in his hands, as he keeps his eyes studiously fixed on his task. Jim sighs, leans in and kisses him after he carefully tucks them both back into their pants.

He doesn’t have the first clue how else to tell Oz how adorable he is without getting punched in the throat. And Oswald is taken off guard at first, but then reaches for Jim at the last second, pulls him in. A hand slides up behind Jim’s head, holds him in place so Oz can slot their mouths together.

He’s a quick study, tongue sliding against Jim’s with calculated finesse, teeth carefully behind lips that guide Jim’s own into a slow, fervent dance. Jim moans against him, caught up in the intensity of it, the way Oz holds him close like he’s some priceless treasure. He can’t help but cling onto it, wrap his arms around Oswald’s neck and press them closer, covet it just as dearly.

Jim leans back, both of them needing air eventually, runs fingers through Oswald’s soft hair. He’d taken a bath earlier, knee and ankle in need of a little attention, didn’t bother styling his hair after. It hangs, loose and scattered, over his forehead and temples, shorter strands sticking up over a cowlick in the back. Oswald closes his eyes under the attention, Jim’s fingers massaging his scalp, and he looks so young. Calmer and happier, a tiny little smile quirking his tired lips, than Jim’s ever seen him.

He could…

No.

He does love him.

The epiphany haunts him for the rest of the evening, his mind preoccupied with second-guessing and denying. Oswald is too tired to notice Jim’s distraction, curls up next to him as they wind down with the news and, suddenly, even that is too much. He excuses himself, gently, to sequester himself in the shower. He just needs a minute—just needs a little space to think.

It’s easier when he’s alone, the sound of water rushing against the tiles creating the illusion of solitude. Gives him the distance he needs to think rationally, because there’s nothing rational about any of this, is there? He can’t be in love with the Penguin—that’s not what this…

Jim rests his forehead against the tiles, cool in comparison to the near-scalding stream along his back. He can only lie to himself so much. This is what he wanted—companionship—someone to hold onto in all of this. And not just someone, either, because he’d had those chances, and plenty of them. He wanted Oswald specifically, thrilled at the attention, the little touches, his selfless affection. He greedily peeled back the layers, awed by each new reveal and is it really so surprising, the realization of his own motives?

The water’s gone cold by the time he turns off the taps, towel secured around his waist as he pads quietly into the bedroom. Oz is already curled up beneath the cover, turned toward the empty side with his nose pressed up against Jim’s pillow. He knows how Oswald feels about him, knows he’ll never utter a word of it so long as Jim holds his tongue.

_‘I have plenty of experience with rejection.’_

He is such an asshole.

Jim’s off contemplating the merits of admitting he’s in love with one of the city’s most brazen criminals, while Oz is here. Here in Jim’s apartment risking everything just to be with him. God knows what his followers must think, what his rivals must be planning to take him down, all while he lays here in Jim’s bed like none of it matters. As if any one of the cogs in his machines isn’t capable of crumbling his entire empire. And Jim should revel in that, use it to his advantage—use this—to squeeze him out, one less threat for their new city to contend with, but…

But.

Jim pulls on his boxers and lays himself beside the Penguin—his ruthless, kind, capricious, beautiful bastard. Oswald stirs when Jim rolls into his space, wraps him up and tucks all that soft, jet-black hair beneath his chin. There’s a quiet, happy hum and a snuffle as Oz settles into the embrace.

“I, uh…” Jim starts, sighs. “I want you to know I…I appreciate everything. I know you’re giving up a lot to be here.”

“Jim,” Oz says tiredly, “it’s really no—”

“I was so…fucked up, and you—please don’t take this the wrong way—but you are the last person I expected to give a shit,” Jim confesses. “I haven’t been exactly—”

“We agreed to start over, didn’t we?” Oswald interjects, exasperated. “It’s all water under the brid—”

“I love you,” he blurts, hates the way Oz tenses in response. Jim leans back, heart-sinking at the sight of his stricken face.

“That’s…” Oz sniffs, face crumbling. “That’s not fair!”

“What—”

“You can’t just say that, Jim!” he cries, miserably and that’s—Jim doesn’t understand, up until the moment he does. “It isn’t fair! You aren’t—you don’t play fair! You never have!”

He pushes Oswald onto his back, hovers over him so he has no choice but to look at him, nowhere to hide. “Why can’t I say it?” Jim demands. “It’s true. You have to know it’s true—nothing gets by you. I wouldn’t lie about that. I promised, remember?”

Finally, Oswald opens his eyes, shakes his head minutely. Jim kisses his trembling lips, then his forehead.

“That first night,” he says. “I promised I wouldn’t hurt you like that, remember? And I could,” Jim admits, “but then I’d have to give you up, and I know you think I could have anyone—that the second I have a choice, I won’t need you anymore. But I’ve had opportunities. We aren’t the only two people left in this city, Oswald, but we may as well be as far as I’m concerned.

“I can’t promise it’ll be enough, but I do love you. Wherever that leaves us—I want you to know it. You deserve to know that.”

Oz stares at him in shocked silence, and Jim realizes he’s entirely focused on breathing. Part of Jim wants to laugh, because it’s such an odd way to react to being told you’re loved. But that’s the thing, right? Has he ever heard it from anyone, aside from his mother? What does that say—what does it do—to a person like Oswald, who feels everything so intensely?

“Come on,” Jim says, as he gently pulls Oswald back onto his side, giving back that place to hide if he wants. “It’s alright,” he encourages as he pulls him in. “I can take it.”

It’s all the permission Oz seems to need, before he burrows his face into Jim’s neck and sobs. Quiet, miserable little hitches of breath that claw at Jim’s insides. He clings to Jim, arm wrapped around his shoulder blades and fingers set into his skin. But it doesn’t hurt—nothing hurts the way it does to hear Oswald’s whispered, stuttering confessions.

“I love you—so much,” he tells Jim hoarsely, words rushing out of him as his lungs hiccup to recover. “No one…I wasn’t ever—I didn’t think you’d…Ed said that I couldn’t—”

Jim doesn’t press him for whatever it is Ed said, figures Oz will tell him eventually. Instead, he waits for him to pull himself together, until he pulls away from Jim with a sheepish chuckle, wipes at his face.

“Sorry,” he says, clearly embarrassed. “Didn’t mean to throw a fit. I know it…it’s not—”

“Hey, don’t.” Jim huffs, grinning playfully. “Don’t apologize for being sad. Or happy. Or upset. It’s okay to be human, sweetheart.”

Oswald ducks his head, shrugs.

There’s something there, Jim can tell, but it’s late and he’s got physical therapy in the morning. They’ll sort it out eventually, he thinks, rolling onto his back. He waits for Oswald to lay himself against his side and closes his eyes. They’re crazy—this whole thing—it’s crazy, but Jim finds himself grinning anyway, because more than that, it’s right—to hell with everything else.

Nothing’s ever felt so right.

And he doesn’t know how it’s going to end, but, well. For the first time in a long, long while, Jim’s open to the idea that it might just be…

Happily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. This is a real theory of Quantum Physics. Yes, I am that nerd.  
> 2\. Obscure classic movie drop, 5 points if you can name the reference! :)  
> 3\. I actually googled what the jump range would be for heart rate when a person is startled. lol  
> 4\. This is an actual thing you have to do when you get shot and are trying to recover properly.
> 
> Hope I didn't miss any of my numerated references...so much text dear god. And I forgot to note them as I moved along.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this chapter, I'd love to know either via kudo or especially a comment. Nothing I love more than discussing characters, head canons and plotlines! Drop me a word! You can also send me a prompt on Tumblr where I go by facemeetpalm.


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